


in the shadows and the moonlight.

by beatrixfranklin



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Slow Burn, this fic has proper grammar i just like lowercase titles :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 41,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25362067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatrixfranklin/pseuds/beatrixfranklin
Summary: and you know damn well, for you I would ruin myself a million little times.
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount, Trixie Franklin/Original Character(s)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 88





	1. the stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you think this new doctor will be like?" Lucille asks hopefully as they ride down the cracked cobbled streets.
> 
> "Exactly like the rest of them were," Trixie replies, clearly unamused by the whole idea.

Thursday morning at Nonnatus, nothing out of the ordinary at all, besides the unusually windy weather for August. Nurses and nuns bustling about, the autoclave pulling its weight with the tools for the day. Sister Julienne enters silently, gracefully, clearing her throat to alert the women of her presence.

"Ladies, I've just had Doctor Turner on the telephone. We're going to have a young doctor staying with us for a short while,"

Remembering the events of the last time young doctors boarded at Nonnatus, the young midwives glance at each other warily, Val and Trixie, in particular, sharing eye contact as they had faced the young men head-on.

"I hope you will all be welcoming to our new guest. Doctor Turner is extremely grateful to us opening our door."

"As long as he knows his place," says Phyllis, taking inventory on a box of padded bandages. Sister Julienne nods, her signature smile still painted on.

"I'm sure it will be an interesting experience for us all," says the older nun, turning and leaving the room. 

The eyeroll from Trixie doesn't go unnoticed, neither does the giggle from Val it earns, which she desperately tries to bite back.

"Now, now, girls," says Phyllis, unable to help her own smile growing, "best behaviour for our guest," 

Leaning over the table to take a roll of sterile gauze, Trixie lets out a sigh,

"We have to be on our best behaviour?" she says, raising a sculpted eyebrow, "May I remind you what happened last time we were in this situation?" 

"I'm not sleeping on the floor again, that's for sure," says Valerie, throwing a wink towards Lucille.

"No, me neither," replies the younger woman, grinning, "although it's just the one, so maybe we won't have to worry." 

Little solace is offered from the bitter wind in the bike sheds as the girls strap their bags to the bikes they trust so dearly. Phyllis' car rumbles into life as she pulls off out of the street, throwing a little wave towards the three nurses, exhaust echoing as she passes under the bridge. The three other midwives brace themselves and head off too.

"What do you think this new doctor will be like, then?" asks Lucille, hopefully, as they ride down the cracked cobbled streets.

"Exactly like the rest of them were," Trixie replies, clearly still unamused by the whole idea.

"At least there's only one this time," Valerie adds with a light air to her voice as always, "we might still have a chance of hot water," 

"Still, I'm not overjoyed by the idea," Trixie continues, perhaps a little too sharply.

"Well, we don't have much choice, I suppose," Lucille says softly, trying to appeal to Trixie’s more forgiving side. "We just have to get on with it."

"I suppose we will," The blonde replies coolly, cycling off down a side street where her first patient lives. Lucille and Val throw a quick glance to each other, laughing as they do so, before continuing their separate rounds.

Trixie finishes her rounds, beginning the trek back to Nonnatus. Leaves whip around her ankles as the wind continues relentlessly, the cold nipping at her nose when a particularly strong gust hits her, sending her perfectly placed burgundy nurses cap tumbling off her head, flying backwards. She pulls on the brakes, coming to a screeching halt and swinging a leg over the seat, giving herself a minute to breathe before retrieving the hat.

Turning, expecting to be alone in the street, she instead sees her uniform hat in the hands of a well turned out young woman. The woman looks up, dark blonde hair falling back over her shoulders in bouncy curls.

"Yours, I presume?" The woman says, holding it out to the shorter woman, despite the distance.

Trixie hesitates, words catching in her throat as her stomach does a flip.

"Yes, it is," She offers a smile, closing the gap between the two until they’re no further than two or three steps apart. Gently, she takes the hat, placing it back onto her windswept bouffant and making a point of pinning it firmly in place.

"Ghastly things don't stay put," She says, giving a signature Trixie smile, dimples and all.

"Lucky there was someone to catch it for you, then. It might be halfway across the Channel in this weather, if not," The stranger says, laughing slightly. Her Northern lilt gives her away instantly as a foreigner to Poplar. It’s not brash like the men she hears at the docks and it’s not commanding like Phyllis- it's soothing, sweet, charming even.

"See you around," With a nod, the woman turns and leaves, her dress shoes clicking at the cobbles.

Trixie notes how well turned out she is- wearing an olive trenchcoat, belted at the waist, over patterned grey slacks, a light blouse tying it all together. Reflecting on this now, Trixie cocks her head, ever the girl to note fashion.

The girl was not a Poplar native, that is for certain. On the walk home, the woman won't leave Trixie’s mind. Her voice, the deep and rich tone that was drenched in light-hearted jokiness, soft and bold all at once.

As she reaches the bike shed of Nonnatus, she shakes her head. A chance encounter.


	2. hot tea & chit chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let's just say, there was a nurse's hat in front of me, and next minute there's the nurse it came from."

It's 6 pm when the shrill ringing of the doorbell rings through Nonnatus House.

With Lucille and Phyllis out at the maternity home, Patsy and Delia holding the fort at Cubs as they often do when Phyllis is otherwise engaged, not expected for their nightly TV watching session until later, and Trixie occupied with the Dansette and a cigarette upstairs, answering the door is left down to Valerie, who's stationed at the phone in case of emergency. Opening the door, she's greeted by an unfamiliar face.

Val jumps as Sister Julienne appears behind her.

"Doctor Manning, I presume?" The kindly sister questions and welcomes, beckoning the young woman inside and away from the wind.

"That's me. At least I should hope so!" The younger woman jokes, making eye contact with Valerie for the first time since she'd opened the door.

"As should I. Is Doctor Turner aware you've arrived safely?" The older nun offers a warm smile as she poses her question.

"He is, yes. That's where I've been all afternoon." the young woman nods, before dropping her suitcase and placing her wind bitten hands into the silk-lined pockets of her coat.

"Nurse Dyer, this is Doctor Manning." states the nun, a hand on Val's shoulder as if she were a daughter she was introducing. Doctor Manning holds out a pale hand, which Val takes in her own and shakes warmly.

"Call me Val, chick." There's a warm smile from the midwife, a genuine smile that makes her eyes crinkle at their corners.

"Shelby. Or 'hey you'. All the same to me." The young doctor begins to warm up, both physically and towards the brunette stood before her.

"Nurse Dyer, would you take Doctor to the kitchen and sort her a cup of tea, while I take care of the suitcase and fetch Nurse Franklin?" asks the nun, taking Shelby's suitcase in her hand and gesturing towards the kitchen.

"Certainly, sister. Poor chick needs warming up, bless ya." The brunette offers a smile to Shelby, who returns it as the pair watch Sister Julienne exit upstairs.  
~ 

"How many people live here altogether, then?" Shelby is sat at the kitchen table, a steaming blue mug cupped in her slowly thawing hands. Valerie takes a minute, clearly counting in her head.

"Six midwives, including me, and three nuns," Val answers, taking a seat next to Shelby at the head of the table. Placing one of her hands on Shelby's own, which rests on the still-steaming mug, her face softens.

"Poor chick, you're still frozen."

"It's the wind. It hits them narrow streets and it's lethal." Shelby offers another slight smile, taking the final still moment to take in the woman who had greeted her. Valerie, ironically, does the same.

The quiet observations last only a moment, soon interrupted by a slender blonde figure making her way into the kitchen.

Trixie's face softens from the somewhat forced grin as she sees the woman sat at the table with her roommate. The grey slacks, the curled, dark blonde hair, the peppered freckles. Hands cupping around a steaming hot mug that just hours before had collected an abandoned nurses hat off of the road.

"Hello, sweetie." Trixie begins, making her way over to the stove to boil the kettle.

"It's just boiled, Trix." Val pipes up, gaining a nod from Trixie as she makes a much-needed cup of tea. The blonde takes her seat opposite Shelby at the table.

"Fancy seeing you here," Shelby says, raising a dark, sculpted eyebrow with a cheeky grin.

"I could say the same to you, mysterious stranger." The lighter blonde adds, placing a cigarette between carefully lined lips and lighting it. Offering the packet onto the table, both women take one, lighting them in turn.

"Small world, isn't' it?" Shelby says, taking a drag.

"You two know each other?" Valerie queries, completely baffled by the scene before her.

"We made a passing acquaintance, yes," Trixie says with a smirk, which quickly turns into a slight giggle.

"Let's just say, there was a nurse's hat in front of me, and next minute there's the nurse it came from." Shelby laughs, green eyes glistening as she does so.

"I did tell you to pin it better, Trix." Val sighs, blowing a cloud of thin grey smoke upwards.

"And ruin my bouffant? I don't think so, Valerie." Trixie remarks, dark eyebrows knitting together in mock fury. Her eyes flit between the familiar brunette and the still mysterious blonde. They mainly lay on the latter, as Trixie finds herself transfixed by something.

"I must say, you're not what I was expecting when Sister Julienne informed us of a young doctor," Trixie says after a moment, rather matter of factly, before taking a drag of her cigarette.

"No, I never usually am. Doctor Turner rang to check I hadn't misspelled my first name." Shelby suddenly seems a little sad, but she blows it away hastily along with the smoke of her quickly dwindling Sobranie.

"We've never had a female doctor on the district roster. It'll be new to everyone, I think." Val adds, shooting a sympathetic look towards the darker blonde.

"Yes, but as with everything, they can like it or lump it. And I'm afraid they may just have to drag themselves to like it." Trixie remarks, shrugging slightly.

"Yeah, they'll come round. Eventually." Val nods. "Round here, they play it all traditional, but they can be swayed. Promise, chick."


	3. new beginnings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tonight." Another drag, more sadness manifesting in ugly grey smoke. "She's off to Paris." Trixie scoffs a little at this, sniffing as she does so.

Shelby takes a final look in the glass of the medical cabinet, running her hands over her newly pressed white coat, smoothing away creases that don't exist. Footsteps behind her maker her suddenly aware of the presence of a colleague behind her. Doctor Patrick Turner. Shelby admires him a great deal- as a general practitioner, he is highly revered, whether he knows it or not. She recognizes she has a lot to learn from him. 

"I'm out on my rounds this morning. You should be alright here at the maternity home." He smiles in his clinical manner, although its clear he does genuinely mean to offer reassurance. 

"Of course, Doctor Turner." She turns to face him. As he steps to leave, she speaks again, stopping him suddenly. "Who from Nonnatus is here this morning?" Shelby kicks herself having to ask. She left a lot earlier than the other women, with it being her first working day in Poplar, never thinking to find out from them.

Doctor Turner smiles again. He spends a moment in thought.

"Nurse Franklin." The reply is not from the seasoned GP, instead, it comes from a sweet Scottish voice, dripping in maternal energy and quiet professionalism. "Oh, you look so smart!" She smiles as though she were looking at one of her children in a new school blazer, not a fully grown woman who stands at almost a good foot taller than herself with a fully-fledged doctorate in medicine. Shelby thanks them, watching the petite woman link her arm in Patrick's, following them out of the office. 

"Nurse Franklin should be here in just a moment, but if you need anything just call Nonnatus. There's always somebody there!" Shelagh adds, smiling up at Shelby once again. The young doctor nods, bidding them both goodbye as they leave.

~

Trixie arrives a little after the couple leave. The doors swing open with gusto, the young nurse entering with poise, cape swaying as she does so. Shelby hears her enter, finishing the routine blood pressure check for the woman in the bed she's stood at and crossing the ward, entering the waiting room, and seeing Trixie hanging up her cape. The blonde turns and instantly Shelby can tell. Slight red rims adorn Trixie's eyes, a small smudge of black going unnoticed just below her right eye. The midwife's eyes are still watery, yet she greets Shelby and gives her a flash of that hopeful, bright smile. 

"Everything alright, Trixie?" The doctor asks, nervously twisting her stethoscope in her hands. Trixie just nods, busying herself with pinning her freshly pressed apron to her uniform. Shelby isn't convinced but her nature tells her to simply leave the issue. Trixie is soon at work, taking temperatures and fetching bedpans. Something is most certainly off, however. She's sluggish, not necessarily slow, but missing just the last tiny spark that makes Trixie tick. Shelby has known her for only a small time, yet her instincts tell her that her newly found friend and colleague has something niggling away at her. Nevertheless, there's a day of work ahead of them. She stays quiet.

The day passes surprisingly quickly, Shelby thinks, at least. Delia and Lucille arrive in the later afternoon, ready to relieve Trixie and Shelby of their duty. Trixie breathes a deep sigh at the sight of them and Shelby watches as she approaches Lucille and pulls her into Doctor Turner's office. From behind the now-closed door, she hears only muffled conversation. Shelby shakes her head, instead heading for Delia to fill the slight Welshwoman in on the events of the day, the things she needs for her shift ahead. This is the first time Shelby is meeting Delia properly- the brunette was out still when she first arrived and returned straight to her room to play cards with her ginger roommate, only a fleeting 'hello' uttered in a cheery Welsh lilt.

"Mrs. Marlow's blood pressure is still rather high, but given that her due date is right around the corner that's much less of a concern." Shelby stands beside Delia, running through the charts pinned to the bland cork clipboard they hold with one hand each. She uses a pen to highlight what she's talking about, leaving faint but accidental lines below the information. Her mind is still running. Lucille and Trixie still haven't emerged and she wonders what's taking them so long. She has only one patient left to inform Delia of, then her purpose is fulfilled and her shift complete. She doesn't want to interrupt the pair's conversation, nor does she want to leave Trixie and cycle home alone. Not that she really could, given her less than rich knowledge of the twisting cobbled streets she now calls home. It's as though Trixie's read her mind- Shelby is almost through filling Delia in on Mrs. Bryant's extended first stage when the door opens with a click behind them, Lucille stepping out first followed by Trixie. The blonde's eyes are circled by more red than they were before and she's not even attempting to cover the mascara stains currently taking residence on her usually porcelain cheeks. Shelby thanks Delia, and, out of courtesy, Lucille. 

~ 

"What's wrong?"

The pair are seated on the back steps of the maternity home, slipping a quick cigarette in before their ride home. Trixie takes a slow, sad drag. Her face folds as she turns to speak.

"Val's going." The reply is sharp, the haste of it like a swift slap to the face.

"What? Where? When?" It's a lot of questions, Shelby recognizes, especially all at once. The 'why' doesn't quite make it in, but she imagines Trixie will fill her in regardless.

"Tonight." Another drag, more sadness manifesting in ugly grey smoke. "She's off to Paris." Trixie scoffs a little at this, sniffing as she does so.

"How come?" asks the young doctor, adjusting her coat over her shoulders. 

"She has a friend out there. Poplar's too painful for her. Her gran.." Trixie trails off, face folding again. Shelby holds the arm closest to the nurse open, letting her fall into it before she wraps it around, only lightly, of course. "Her entire life is here, Shelby."

Shelby nods, understanding completely where Trixie is coming from. She sighs, inhaling more smoke. 

"Sometimes, running from what hurts us is often an easy option." She begins, feeling Trixie soften slightly, "Did she say whether she'd be back?" 

Trixie shakes her head.

"That's what I asked Lucille. Well, that, and if they'd managed to talk her down. No hope on either front." Trixie throws her stubby cigarette end onto the floor. She's smoked it down so far Shelby is amazed it hasn't burnt her delicate, Nivea-softened fingertips. Trixie sits, reaching out a toned leg and crushing the amber glowing cigarette underfoot. 

"If this is where her family is, she'll be back. You just have to let her heal." Shelby smiles. She crushes out her own cigarette before standing and approaching the bikes leaned against the wall.


	4. goodbyes and silence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You'll be alright Trixie. You will." Shelby smiles one more time. "Your tea'll go cold if you're not careful," She stands. The door is pulled open quietly. "Night, darlin'."

Three suitcases. That is all Valerie Dyer has to show for her time in Poplar, all she is taking with her.

Trixie's barely finished crying. Valerie is a friend, perhaps more, and yet again another fleeting face is leaving. Lucille's torn up too- she and Valerie have the type of bond that's better unspoken in the small hours or the quiet moments. 

"Thank you. For absolutely everything." Valerie says, sharing a brief moment of eye contact with Sister Julienne, the older nun's eyes shining faintly with tears. She personally had hired Valerie, asked her to apply when hope seemed lost. Before that, still, Valerie was connected to them all. She had been born into their hands, or more specifically into Sister Monica Joan's hands. The oldest nun steps forwards, holding Valerie gently by the shoulders.

"We set you about this journey all those years ago. It seems only right we see you safely now." Monica Joan smiles up at the woman, who is significantly taller than herself. Valerie thanks her, too, clearly choking back tears. Sister Monica Joan nods, stepping back to join her Sisters.

Valerie turns on her heel, only slightly, to the four women stood beside her, the ones she holds dearest, has known longest. Phyllis is packing the car, goodbyes, and wisdom coming on the drive to the airport, Shelby seated on the stairs by choice out of the way. She doesn't feel comfortable being in the midst of everything. She simply observes.

Valerie takes the women in her arms, clinging tightly.

"You be careful now, you hear?" Delia says, her voice wobbling slightly. She's not good with goodbyes, she always has loved a sense of permanence with both surrounding and people.

"We'll come to visit whenever we get the chance," Patsy adds. The redhead is more accustomed to seeing the back of those she loves, although seeing Delia torn up over everything has certainly struck a nerve. The pair let go, stepping aside.

Trixie's beside them, her tears ceasing for only a moment. She takes Val into her arms, holding on tight, just as she has so many times before. It's different this time. She's scared, for Val, being out there in Paris with no ties to home, and for herself. The shared bedroom certainly has an awful lot of space for one body. 

"Please be safe. Please." Trixie's voice is a pained whisper and Val knows exactly what her tone means. The brunette squeezes tighter, running her hand along Trixie's spine.

"Always, Trix. Always." Val whispers back, tears escaping her own eyes now. Trixie lets go after what seems to be an eternity passes, wiping her red raw eyes with her cardigan sleeve. An awful habit, she knows, but one that she can let slip for tonight. Patsy takes her hand in the one not already taken by Delia, running her thumb over the clammy skin at the back of Trixie's hand.

Lucille looks into Val's eyes for only a moment. They take each other into their arms, letting previously denied tears fall free and fast. She doesn't have much to say- there's not many in either of the languages she's fluent in to describe the time Val is leaving in the past.

"Don't go getting into mischief now, precious," Lucille whispers into Val's neck, letting her embrace tighten around Val's body one last time before letting go. Val's hands don't leave Lucille- trailing down her arm, holding tight onto one of her hands. 

"Would I ever, chick?" Val smiles, not forced, but a genuine beam. The idea of hurting Lucille is almost too much for her to bear. But staying here _is_ too much to bear. She has Cyril. Soon, Valerie Dyer will be a memory, not just to her but to everyone within these walls.

"Car's packed, lass." Phyllis smiles at Val, her eyes kind and knowing. Val nods, giving Lucille's hand one last squeeze before letting go. She exits through the grand oak doors, followed by everybody else. The steps outside fill with the women as she climbs into the car. She can see them waving and it shatters her heart. Lucille is stood wrapped in Trixie's arms and as much as it hurts Val, it gives her hope that Lucille will be cared for in her absence.

The engine rumbles to life. They're waving. One last look through Phyllis' side mirrors. Nonnatus is slipping away behind her.

~ 

Trixie hates silence. It's funny, as a child she loved it, craved it even. If it was silent, it meant her father was sleeping, or sober, and that she could be herself. Not perfect little Beatrix, but Trixie, a far cry from her sunshine and dimples routine. It meant solace, a time for her to slip out and spend her evenings with cigarettes and pretty girls.

That's what the air smells of now. Endless cigarettes and the lavender tones of Val's favourite perfume.

Trixie takes the bottle of her own favoured scent, spraying it liberally. She takes a deep breath, but Val is still there. It's fruitless. It's then that a knock at the door snaps her back to reality. She places the bottle on the nightstand.

"It's open."

In steps Shelby, quiet and cautious. Trixie breathes a sigh of relief. There are much worse people to be seeing at this time. There's a saucer in her hands, delicately balancing a teacup atop. It's steaming away nicely and Trixie smiles.

"Just tea. Wanted to make sure you were doing alright." She steps forward, handing the saucer to Trixie who takes it. She places it down and places a cigarette between her lips. Trixie nods, lighting the cigarette.

"I suppose so." A shrug. "Just. Nevermind." She shakes her head, taking a drag.

"You can talk to me, Trixie. I guess I'm sort of alright for that, with not being here long." Trixie pats the duvet in front of her and draws her knees to her chest. Shelby takes a seat in front of her.

"I just never expected her to leave." Trixie starts, taking a slow drag on her cigarette before continuing. "Her entire life is here. I'd expected it from Lucille or Phyllis, but now Val's gone, and it seems everyone important just leaves."

Shelby nods, understanding and gentle, keeping quiet. She's not too certain if this is her place to speak still. "I understand why she's gone, don't think that's why I'm upset. It was all just so... quick. Now I'm sleeping alone."

"I get it," Shelby says after a moment. "In training and my first post as a newly-qualified midwife. Funnily enough, Yorkshire isn't where everyone wants to stay and nurse. The big city is where the big shiny hospitals are. The money, mostly." Shelby takes the cigarette as it is gently held in her direction. She takes a quick drag before placing it back in Trixie's nimble, slightly shaking fingers.

"I can't tell you why Val's gone to Paris," Trixie adds, slight coolness to her tone.

"To heal, probably. I don't think you can get much further removed than that." Shelby cracks a little smile, charming and warm. Trixie sighs, although she's warming up.

"No, I get it. I do. I'm not mad _at her,_ per se." She pauses, stubbing out her cigarette, looking around at the space. It's filled with ghosts by now, Val only adding to the list of people Trixie has let in only for them to up and leave in a short time. "It's an awful lot of space for one person." She shudders.

"You'll be alright Trixie. You will." Shelby smiles one more time. "Your tea'll go cold if you're not careful," She stands. The door is pulled open quietly. "Night, darlin'." 

Trixie's alone again.


	5. unspoken.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But he is gone,” you reply, confused, as your sister squares the lapels of your brand new red coat, perhaps a little too roughly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential tw for mentions of homophobia and old fashioned conversion methods but nothing graphic

Dinnertime chat at Nonnatus often involves current affairs, news, and gossip on the street. This evening is no exception. Word is passing rapidly concerning the government's latest plans, rumours that they intend to lift years of persecution and hate with a single Act.

It is Sister Frances who brings it to light first. 

“I understand what the Bible has to say concerning it, but with all due respect I don’t see the problem, really.” 

Sister Julienne nods slowly, spearing a piece of fish onto her fork.

“I don’t see it as our place to comment. We are slowly having less and less pull in political affairs, a fact which becomes more apparent each day.” The nun is careful with her words.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Sister, I think it’s a long time overdue. I don’t see why love has ever been illegal.” Trixie interjects, using her batting eyelashes to soften the tone slightly, although there’s an unspoken fierceness behind her words.

“I agree,” adds Phyllis, “times are changing, for the better. I mean, not even ten years ago you would never see a female doctor, yet here we are sitting with Doctor Manning!”

The older midwife gestures across the table to Shelby, who sheepishly brings small forkfuls to her mouth. She smiles, somewhat weakly. Sister Julienne nods again.

“You’re right, Nurse Crane. The future is certainly upon us.” She smiles a genuine, kind smile. She’s not as extreme as some of her other sisters, a certain redhead’s words a few years prior ringing in her head still, spoken from the same seat that now holds Nonnatus’ first-ever black midwife (a move that would likely also rile her up). 

She also isn’t naive, blind, or ignorant. Her employee’s bond with the small Welsh nurse doesn’t slip under the radar as well as both of them would like to think. Sister Julienne often says a quick, silent prayer for them both- not for them to be changed, or fixed, but for them to find peace and safety. They find both under the shingled roof of Nonnatus House, even more so in their tiny shared apartment.

~

Shelby sits cross-legged on the spare bed, Val’s bed, in Trixie’s room. Patsy stands at the dressing table, leafing through Trixie’s abundance of records.

“No Billy Fury, Pats?” Trixie jokes, blowing smoke in the general direction of her ginger friend.

“Under no circumstances. Ever,” she replies, taking her place next to Shelby. It’s just the three of them tonight- Delia’s working at home, Lucille at her weekly prayer meeting. 

“Oh!” Trixie suddenly exclaims, sitting up, startling the other two women in the process, “You missed our riveting dinner time discussion today, Patsy.” 

“Oh?” a cigarette hangs limply from faded red lips, waiting for a spark. She ponders. “Not about recent events, by any chance?” 

Trixie nods. 

“Rather civil, may I add. Wasn’t it, Shelby?”

Attention turns to the blonde beside Patsy. She simply nods. She doesn’t meet either of their eyes, fixating on a swirl on Trixie’s silky comforter on the other side. Looking up, she smiles, watery, uncertain. Trixie cocks her head, offering the still burning Sobranie to Shelby. She accepts it between slender fingers.

“Penny for them?” Patsy asks, taking a drag of her own. Shelby shrugs,

“Just a touchy subject, I suppose,” she says, scanning their faces. Their dropping expressions make her heart sink, “Not in that way. I agree with it... just,” 

Another drag. She sighs. 

“This is a safe space, sweetie. Always.” Trixie looks at Shelby, taking in the energy she exudes, nervous, like a deer caught in headlights, ready to run at the drop of a penny. Shelby inhales.

“When I was younger, my father... He left.” 

~

_ All you know is that your father is gone, never to return. Mother won’t speak of him, your sisters either unaware or sworn to silence alongside her. _

_ “Always told me he was no good. Should’ve listened,” Vera Manning’s voice is stern, broken.  _

_ At seven years old, you sit on the stairs, hugging your knees, concealing a ragged, filthy teddy, the last thing you have of your father, under your skirt. You’re young and naive and although you desperately try, knowing from your grandmother's voice and your mother's wracking sobs that you should, you can’t find a reason to hate him. _

~

“For another man.” she finishes her sentence, her eyes falling back to the comforter. Trixie’s cigarette is thrust back into her hand, Shelby appearing to fold herself inwards.

~

_ “Remember what mum said? If anyone asks, he’s gone.” Jessie, your eldest sister, takes charge of you and your siblings while your mother heals.  _

_ “But he is gone,” you reply, confused, as your sister squares the lapels of your brand new red coat, perhaps a little too roughly.  _

_ “No. Gone, gone. Not alive.” her tone is indignant. _

_ “But that’s lying, Jess,” comes your reply. Lying is bad, you know that, and there’s nothing in your mind that your father could be guilty of that warrants a blatant lie. _

~

Patsy and Trixie ponder for a moment. 

Shelby begins again, with a heavy sigh.

“I don’t hate him. I couldn’t. He hadn’t done anything,” for the first time, she meets both of their eyes. Trixie looks at her, blue eyes holding warmth and compassion. Patsy reaches out a hand, placing it on Shelby’s shoulder.

~

_ Peter Manning faces trial next week.  _

_ Nine years, he lasted, fleeing from his past, running towards his present. The future has been cut off.  _

_ So far removed from his children, his wife, the home they grew together, that nobody questions the way your surnames match, or that his nose matches your own. He is simply a forgotten man. _

_ You find out the real reason from the newspaper yourself, the one your mother leaves haphazardly over the arm of the chair each and every morning. It is later, over tea and firelight, she opens up.  _

_ Passes you your first cigarette, at least, what she believes is your first.  _

_ As the flames of the stoked fire burn hot, the only light of the room, your mother stares into them. _

_ Tells you where he went, why he went.  _

_ That he lived in fear, fear that eventually consumed him, leaving him no choice but to run. _

_ That he left his life savings on the sideboard, that your mother used it to purchase your new favourite red coat to ease a burden she didn’t realise you never felt.  _

_ She speaks with angst, with anger but overwhelmingly with grief.  _

_ She tells you that their ruse fell apart, that he was dragged from the home he shared with the man you don’t know by police after an anonymous tip proved fruitful. _

_ That he will stand in court and plead his case next week. _

_ You shiver. You know the outcomes for that. You stub the cigarette out as your mother hands you the ashtray. _

_ Then, you do something you haven’t done potentially since you were the tiny figure trembling on the stairs as the house you knew as home fell to bits. _

_ You join her on the sofa. You curl in the crook of her arm, no mean feat now you’re almost a fully grown woman who, ironically, stands more like your father in height. You lay your head on her chest, feeling her tears begin. She feels like home but also a stranger, in some strange twist of fate.  _

_ The fire dwindles, embers jumping much less abundantly now. Your eyes are heavy as she runs her nails along your spine.  _

_ Peter Manning will face trial for something which should not be a crime, is your last thought.  _

_ ~ _

“What happened?” asks Trixie, although she seems to regret it. 

“The jury didn’t see what part of me still saw,” she replies, “sentenced him to two steel rods in the brain.”

Shelby sniffs. There are still parts of her father's fate she can’t repeat without her throat closing. Patsy holds her arm around her shoulders, 

“I think it’s despicable. The way that people are treated simply for love.” says the redhead. Both women nod. 

“I haven’t seen him since he stood up in court. I don’t know if I’d recognise him now. Or even... Even the other way around.” Shelby sighs. 

“I don’t hate him. I don’t, I swear. I couldn’t,” she’s adamant, almost as though she’s persuading herself as much as the two women she sits with, “it just rather complicates things, sometimes.” 

Shelby bites her lip. She means to continue but stops herself. She nods as though her sentence is complete. Any belief she has about Nonnatus and their title as a safe haven is assumed, although she sees the rings hanging slyly from a chain around the smaller Welsh nurse's neck, with no man in sight. 

She shrugs, smiles, finishing her lemon water. 

“Patsy, please put something decent on next time.” Trixie jokes as the redhead stands, advancing towards the Dansette.

“Quiet, you.” comes the reply, earning a wink and a grin from the blonde. Shelby settles into the headboard, digging naked nails into the soft skin of her palm. 


	6. facades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why don’t you take Valerie’s old bed?” asks Patsy, obliviously, as she runs her mascara brush through the pan.

“Well, Shelby, you see, I _was_ a blonde,” says Patsy as she looks into the mirror, glancing up at Trixie behind her, “but somebody decided she could be the only one.” 

Trixie lifts a curled ginger strand, spraying a generous amount of lacquer to keep it tamed. She rolls her eyes.

“Of course. It adds to my charm,” she says, with a flash of a smile. 

“Suppose some of us are lucky to be naturally gifted with the blonde, then,” Shelby pipes up, sat on the foot of Trixie’s bed with a cigarette gracefully held in her two fingers. Trixie huffs, swatting her hand against Shelby’s knee. Leaving Patsy to adjust her lipstick, Trixie turns to Shelby, taking one of her bouncy blonde curls in her hand. 

“You haven’t a clue the small fortune I’d set aside for hair like this,” she says, letting it fall through her fingers, landing at Shelby’s shoulders. Shelby shrugs.

“Never done much with it. Don’t really know how,” she says, handing the half-burnt cigarette to Trixie, wary of still lingering lacquer fumes. 

“Oh, Shelby, you must let me do something one day. Even just a few braids, or some different curls!” Trixie’s eyes light up, deep blue and filled with potential, at the prospect. Shelby nods, 

“I suppose I might let you. If you’re nice to me.” she smiles at Trixie, her nose crinkling as she does so. Trixie gasps, pantomime fashion, earning a giggle from Patsy as she carefully applies deep red to her cupid's bow,

“I’m _always_ nice to you! I let you sit in here as opposed to the dismal attic room, for a start.” Trixie folds her arms, raising sculpted eyebrows. Shelby shudders,

“You’re right, I suppose. Grateful as I am for a roof over my head, the roof tends to leak in a heavy downpour. Or light downpour. Sometimes even glorious sunshine.” Shelby takes the last of her cigarette back from Trixie.

“Why don’t you take Valerie’s old bed?” asks Patsy, obliviously, as she runs her mascara brush through the pan.

“She’s only just left, Patsy, I wouldn’t want to feel like I was jumping into her shoes.” 

“Her shoes are huge, you never could anyway,” she laughs, tinged only slightly with sadness, “besides, it’s a warm bed with an intact roof that’s currently going cold,” answers Trixie, flopping down onto her own bed, cradling a cup of tea that’s beginning to cool. 

Before Shelby can let out her next thought, a knock at the door reveals Lucille with Delia in tow.

“Found a certain someone on the doorstep when I arrived back,” she says with a warm smile, stepping out of the way for Delia to enter. She stands in the doorway, her arms folded as she leans against the frame. A habit she can thank Valerie for. 

“Where did you say you were going again?” asks Shelby, smiling up at the newly arrived brunette. 

A pause.

“The Silver Buckle.” answers Patsy, turning in her chair, “some girls from the London invited us out for a catch-up.” 

Delia nods. 

“I must say, it sounds like a much more delightful evening than poor Shelby and me,” sighs the blonde, lighting a cigarette. Patsy grimaces playfully,

“On-call, the joys and delights!” she says with a wink, Trixie blowing smoke towards her with a huff, “can’t say I envy you.” 

“We’d better get going, Pats,” Delia says, turning her attention to her watch. The redhead nods, scanning herself once more in the mirror before standing. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” calls Trixie as they exit.

“Have fun!” comes the shout from Shelby.

The room hangs in silence for only a moment. Lucille inhales, closing the door behind her.

“I heard the conversation you had before I came in.” she says, adamant, arms folded, “is it not too soon to be replacing Valerie?” her eyes bore into Trixie, who stares back. Shelby’s eyes drop to the skirting boards, unease washing over her. 

“Oh, Lucille, sweetie. We’re not replacing her. That’s impossible, we all know that.” Trixie taps Shelby gently with her foot, urging the doctor to look up at Lucille.

Lucille isn’t angry at Shelby, she’s not convinced she’s even angry at Trixie. Valerie is a fresh wound, however, and both parties can see the young girls angst.

“I can stay in the attic, it’s really not a problem. The creaking of the beams in the morning really grows on you eventually,” says Shelby, lightly, trying to wash away tension, although she’s not sure who’s sake it is for.

“No, Shelby, that’s entirely unfair. There’s a perfectly good bed here, with nobody in it.” Trixie gestures towards the bed, covers untouched. She turns, tapping the ash from her cigarette. As she brings her body back around, she is met with an indignant Lucille.

“What about when she comes back? Where will she go?” her tone is sharp, sharper than Trixie has ever heard and it takes both women aback. Trixie sighs, deeply. She takes her feet from where they lie in Shelby’s lap, standing to meet Lucille. 

“She’s not coming back. Do you really think that _Poplar_ will win her back over _Paris?_ ” Trixie is blunt, potentially surprising even herself. As much as she hates to say it, Val has left them and she’d rather forget it, although it seems she’s the only one so hasty to move along.

Lucille stutters. Takes a step back, turning and opening the door in one swift movement. Trixie sighs as she leaves. The tears that were threatening in Lu’s big brown eyes were undeniable. 

~

_The boat to England, although a step up from the hell you witnessed in the years prior, is undeniably hellish in its own right. You’re alone, something you fear you’ll be used to very shortly if you aren’t already._

_Liberation to you had meant one thing- home. Your mother and sister no longer with you, all you wanted was to sink into your father's arms. At twelve, your misfortunes left you slight, pale and awkward, yet harsh and fierce, burdened by cold sweats and flashbacks, with great gnarled lashes lining your spine beneath your vests._

_You greeted him with such joy, relief flooding over you. He was not the same man, just as you were not the same girl. He was troubled and you promised to be good for him, perfect little Patience, living up to your namesake._

_He couldn’t handle the constant tremor, the screams that woke you, left you thrashing and calling for the mother and sister you couldn’t have._

_A constant cycle of nannies and butlers became your normal, cold, unfeeling strangers cradling you, consoling you when all you wanted was the man who wanted nothing to do with you._

_That’s how, at twelve, your thirteenth birthday fast approaching, you sit on a boat to England. To boarding school, surrounded by girls your age who will be schooled the same way. One single suitcase holds all you have in the world- including the already fading reminders of your family._

_You make it your mission to fit in, to belong. Although deep down, spiralling in the pit of your stomach, you are well aware that Patience Mount will stand out for however long she is breathing._

_~_

“So long as you are agreeable, Nurse Franklin, I see no reason why this change shouldn’t go ahead.” Sister Julienne smiles back from the other side of her desk, hands folded in front of her. 

“It just seems so unfair to leave poor Shelby in the attic,” smiles Trixie, dimples emerging from her porcelain skin, “besides, I could do with the company.” 

Sister Julienne nods, almost annoyed with herself for not thinking of that. Nurse Franklin thrives off of the company of others, and Shelby’s move is the perfect solution.

“I’ll have Fred look at the roof, in the event Nurse Dyer returns to us,” she adds.

“Oh, I can always move back up there, I honestly don’t mind at all, Sister,” answers Shelby, looking between Trixie and Sister Julienne. She smiles, sheepishly.

“We’d better get started, before the call to arms beckons,” Trixie says, placing a hand on Shelby’s arm as the women rise. Just in time, they think, as Sister Julienne’s telephone begins to ring with it’s drilling tone. The doctor and nurse leave hastily. 

“Nonnatus House, Sister Julienne speaking.”

~

“Is this really all you have?” asks Trixie, gesturing towards the two suitcases and a single box laying on what was Shelby’s bed. The doctor nods.

“I was coming all the way from Leeds, I wasn’t about to cart my entire life down on the train, Trixie,” she answers, taking a suitcase in each hand. Trixie takes the box, letting Shelby take the lead.

“I suppose, although I’ll have to take you shopping up West one day,” Trixie says as they head down the creaking oak stairs, “there are some lovely boutiques which are right up your street, I think.” 

Shelby ponders, only for a second.

“As long as you’re not trying to con me into wearing a skirt, it’s a deal,” replies Shelby as the enter Trixie’s room. Trixie sighs, placing the box on the bed and placing her hands at her waist. Her eyes run along Shelby's figure for a minute before she speaks.

“You have such lovely long legs, why hide them under slacks all the time?” she insists, tilting her head with a smile. Shelby responds with an eyebrow raise, smiling back. Their eyes linger with each other for a moment.

Shelby turns her attention to the first suitcase. Trixie holds on for just a second longer.

~

“I hate to call you in on such formal terms, but there are things I must address, Nurse Mount.” 

Patsy swallows, hard. She knits her fingers together as she holds her hands together in front of her, standing relatively small given her usual tall frame.

“I received a telephone call this morning from a disgruntled member of the public,” she begins, Patsy’s stomach bubbling with anxiety, 

“Says he believes he spotted you leaving-” she hesitates, looking down at a notebook which lies folded open at her desk, “Gateways. With Nurse Busby.” 

Patsy chokes on air. She clasps her hands together tight, slight nails digging into soft, clammy skin. She nods.

“At Nonnatus House, we have a duty to protect those who live here. But we also serve the community, and reputation is almost as important as your work.” Sister Julienne stands, meaning to bring comfort to the nurse stood before her. 

Patsy stands like a deer in headlights, waiting for the impending collision. Except, instead, she does what she does best. She wipes the sweat of her hands along her smooth blue uniform, advancing backwards.

Sister Julienne is almost quick enough to stop her as she leaves. 

~

_“Queen Margaret’s is a respectable institution, Patience.”_

_The matron stands before you, almost as broad in width as she is in stature._

_“Such behaviour will not be tolerated here.”_

_It was a risk, you knew that, but one you thought would pay off. You’d never met a girl like you before. Angela was the first._

_A kind girl, soft and sweet, shorter than yourself, with gentle grey eyes. She confided in you one night in your dormitory, told you how she felt like an outsider. She was so unaware you felt the same._

_You stole away one lunchtime, behind the bike sheds, sharing a hidden moment that to you both signified the relief of a heavy burden._

_These secret moments made up for what the other girls said about the ones like yourself, unknowingly sitting beside two of the very girls they mocked in lessons and studies._

_The facade could only last so long. One of the sisters, coming to retrieve a lost netball, rounded the corner. You couldn’t part from Angela quickly enough. Sister Genevieve caught you both, taking you by the arms, hauling you to the office you believed only existed in myth._

_You promised it was a mistake. Insisted that lines from the bible and a cane over the knuckles could cure whatever ill had possessed you. Swore you were changed. Although you sat in your punishment alone._

_Returned to an empty dorm. You never saw the power of prayer, but you couldn’t fool yourself if you said you didn’t try._

_~_

“Shelby, you have to be hiding aces up your sleeve somewhere!” insists Sister Frances as she throws her cards onto the table after another defeat. Shelby smiles, shrugging.

“What can I say? Maybe this is my true calling,” she says, collecting the cards, ready for another shuffle. Trixie hits her arm with the back of her hand, only gently. 

“What, being a ghastly cheat at cards?” she says lightly, sipping at her still steaming mug. Shelby shuffles and deals another hand with ease.

The front door opens, Delia stepping inside. She approaches the table, her face crumpling as she scans the occupants.

“Care to join us, Delia?” Shelby asks, holding up the deck, prepared to deal another hand.

“She cheats something rotten, mind,” adds Sister Frances, fanning out her own set and observing the contents.

Delia shakes her head.

“Is Pats not here?” she asks, her eyes wide. 

“She was this morning, I thought she was just off out on her rounds,” answers Shelby, looking between the women on the table. 

“She was up first thing and I haven’t seen her since,” Delia says, her breath catching, “I think some of her things are.. are missing.” 

The three women seated at the table stand in a hurry, cut off by the arrival of Sister Julienne.

“Nurse Busby. Can I speak to you for a moment?” her voice is soft, kind as always, yet holds an unspoken tension. Delia follows her into her office. 

The women left behind share glances, the atmosphere heavy.

~

_You let out a sigh, your breath clouding into the cold winter air and trailing upwards. Delia holds your hands in her own, her warmth seeping into you._

_The darkness is your only friend, the only thing that shelters you, as you sit on the frosted park bench. The moon threatens to glance upon you, it’s light dim in the late hour._

_You can’t look her in the eyes._

_“You realise, Delia, if somebody finds out..” you pause, shuddering, unsure whether it is with cold or with fear, “it’s over. We lose it all.”_

_Delia nods, slowly, sadly. She has debated this almost as much as you have. You both hold respectable careers, though you are more than aware that they mean nothing should anybody find out about what happens in the moonlight._

_“Is it not worth it?” she asks, gentle, “For us.”_

_She gives your hand a squeeze. You wrap an arm around her shoulders, letting her fall into you. Her head nestles into the crook of your neck, your breathing synchronising as she settles._

_“Of course it is. You are more than worth it.”_


	7. better left unsaid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Valerie,” she manages to choke out.

“She’s done this before,” says Trixie, “she always comes home.” Something about her tone is uneasy, almost as if her words are for her own comfort more than they are anyone else's. 

“Do you have any idea where she might be?” asks Shelby, still nervously shuffling the cards between her hands. Trixie shakes her head.

“One must hope she’s simply out on her rounds,” answers the blonde.

“With her things missing?” says Sister Frances, sweetly, naively.

“Yes. We heard, Sister,” says Trixie, rising from the table, heading to the kettle. 

It is then that Delia emerges, her eyes bleary. She approaches the table, taking a seat at the head. A deep sigh leaves her body as she steadies herself.

“There’s something you all need to know. About Patsy. About me and Patsy,” she announces. Trixie takes her hand from one side of the table, lightly squeezing it in her own. Delia takes a steadying breath.

~

_ “Delia, get down from there!” you hear your mother call. You kick your legs back over the branch, letting yourself perch high in the tree. _

_ “I made it all this way, mam!” you shout from up high, concealed in the leaves.  _

_ “No man wants to marry a girl who climbs trees, cariad,” your mum insists, smiling up as she carefully dries a plate.  _

_ “That’s okay,” you reply, “don’t want one anyway.” you giggle as a breeze whistles through the trees, blowing the wild strands of your brunette hair that have released their way from your braids.  _

_ Your mother takes this as adolescent disdain, a simple ‘boys are gross’ phase that will pass as you age.  _

_ But you’re absolutely right. _

_ You don’t want one.  _

_ ~ _

“Together? Like..” Delia nods, cutting Shelby off. Trixie sighs. 

“That’s why she’s gone. Someone... saw us... last night,” she struggles through her sentence, not meeting anyone’s eyes. She dreads what she’ll see when she looks back up. Trixie’s hand is still locked firmly in her own, a thumb running over the pale skin at the back of her hand.

“I understand if this changes things. We always knew it might,” she adds, choking back tears as she does so. Trixie inhales sharply, causing a flinch from the brunette.

“Delia,” she starts, “we love you. We love Patsy, even when she goes AWOL on us,” 

Delia meets her eyes, finally, allowing herself to scan the other occupants of the table. Shelby leans forward in her seat, elbows rested on the table, still fluttering the deck of cards between her hands. Sister Frances sits with her chin rested on her hands, smiling back at the Welshwoman sitting across from her.

“Trixie knows where I stand on it,” adds Shelby, “if you’re happy and safe, I couldn’t care less.” she smiles across at Delia, who blinks rapidly, trying fruitlessly to avoid tears.

“Now we just need to find Patsy, and tell her the same,” adds Sister Frances as she absentmindedly plays with the tassel at her waist. Shelby inhales,

“I’ll ask Nurse Crane if I can borrow her car, we can go out for a bit and look,” she says, standing, taking her empty mug to the kitchen and placing it in the sink with a clatter, “if not, it’ll be Doctor Turner’s, but I’d rather prefer to avoid asking him,” 

“You can drive?” comes the reply, and Shelby is uncertain whether it is Trixie, Delia, or both. She smiles lightly,

“I’m a dark horse, I tell you,” she replies, placing her mug on the draining rack. She turns, approaching the chair where Trixie is sitting so that she can address Delia. She places two firm hands on the backrest, leaning against it.

“We’ll find her, Delia,” she offers another smile, gentle and kind, “I promise you.” 

~

_ “And then Harry kissed me!”  _

_ Girls fall into giggles around you, their cheeks painted rose red from blushing. You roll your eyes, sighing as you pull apart a daisy petal by petal. _

_ “What about you, Delia?” asks one of the girls, startled, causing you to look up from the delicate white petals scattered on the ground. You shrug. _

_ “Don’t like boys,” you say, adamant. The circle shares confused looks.  _

_ “There has to be one, at least,” you shake your head, confused. Because there very much isn’t. _

_ Instead, it is the girl sitting across from you that makes your cheeks turn pink and your stomach tie in knots. Helen, a slight girl with the shiniest blonde hair you’ve ever seen, the girl who sits next to you in class, who shares her apple slices at lunch with a smile.  _

_ Helen piques your curiosity, makes you question the axis that the world turns on. You’ve never heard of a girl loving another girl like you’re meant to love boys. Your naive interest only grows and you eventually broach the subject at dinner. _

_ “Mam?” you ask, sweet, pure. _

_ “Yes, Delia?” she replies, slowing her knife and fork. _

_ “Can girls marry girls?” The question is out there. Your mother takes a breath. _

_ “No, cariad, you can’t,” comes the reply. _

_ And that’s that.  _

_ ~ _

Lucille pads down the corridor, hair beginning to release itself from her neatly pressed updo after a busy night of checks and deliveries. Instinctively, her feet slow as she reaches the first door on the left. Her hand ventures towards the doorknob before she halts. Her mind is programmed in sync with her heart, certain that Valerie exists behind that door. 

Even when her half of the closet was made barren, sheets left clean and pressed with no warmth ever penetrating them, Lucille felt she was there. Even now, she can hear her laughter emanating, mingled with Trixie’s airy giggle. She can smell the smoke billowing from her Henley’s, a deeper, more pungent smoke than Trixie’s elegant Sobranie. She takes a sharp breath in, straightens up, and continues along to her room. 

It is the hour in which she would enter Val’s room, praying Trixie wasn’t there so that she could crawl into the sheets beside the tall woman and lay in still silence. Sometimes they’d talk, about the day, about burdens, sometimes about the nonsensical trivia of the world. Often, Val’s long arms would simply wrap around Lucille, cradling her, never moving even when the feeling had completely left the arm supporting Lucille’s smaller frame. 

That was then.

Her own room is cold, lonely, despite the warm presence sat on the bed, engrossed in Spanish vocab. As Lucille falls onto her own bed, easing off her shoes, she allows herself to let go. Phyllis puts down her book, turning to face her.

“Oh, lass, whatever’s the matter?” she asks, watching Lucille’s brown eyes fill with more tears that fall in quick succession. 

“Valerie,” she manages to choke out. Phyllis nods. She had her suspicions, of course, she did. Lucille smelt of Valerie’s perfume far more than she did her own, and their hands always seemed to be entwined, linked together as though they were molded to fit like perfect puzzle pieces.

Phyllis switches sides, sitting next to a sobbing Lucille, although she makes no move to comfort her until the young midwife reaches for it. Lucille falls against Phyllis, letting herself be held. The older midwife lets Lucille cry against her for as long as she needs, ever a source of maternal wisdom in times where Sister Julienne isn’t the advisable choice. The entire situation, pining, desperation, springs her back to similar occurrences in her past, well aware that Lucille isn’t the first girl she’s held as she mourns someone who lives on. 

~

It is during their search, in Doctor Turner’s car no less, that Shelby and Delia really come to terms. The sky grows ever darker, although they’re not prepared to head back yet. It is Shelby who exhales first, moving to ease tension.

“You know, I don’t know if Patsy ever said anything, but I don’t hate people for… that,” she begins, looking between Delia and the road.

“She said something about your father,” Delia begins, resting her elbow on the window, “I’m surprised it didn’t turn you against us.” Shelby smiles weakly, moving to change gear.

“If I hated him, it would only be for leaving us, not for what he is,” Shelby replies, turning to face Delia for a brief moment as the car stops in a small cluster of traffic.

“I wish everyone felt that way,” replies Delia, tinged with sadness, “we wouldn’t be here if they did.” She bites at the inside of the cheek, clearly bitter at her circumstances. Shelby doesn’t blame her at all.

She hesitates, for a second at least.

“The thing is, Delia,” her eyes are firmly on the road, slim fingers curling around the leather of the steering wheel, “if I hated him for what he is, I think it would make me a hypocrite.”

She pauses.  _ Flinches. _

“Are you saying-” 

“I might be. I don’t know,” she holds onto a breath without realising, without thinking.

~

_ Your mother's eyes burn into you, although they are brimming with tears all the same. _

_ “I just worry, Delia, you know I do. Your father’s the same.”  _

_ You invited her for tea with your partner from nursing school. She had herself convinced it was a male, perhaps a doctor in training, a surgeon if your charming Welsh lilt and twinkling blue eyes had served you well. _

_ She wasn’t prepared for the tall blonde woman, with eyes as piercing as the tone with which she spoke. You silence your mother as Patsy rejoins you, taking her seat as she smiles at the older woman beside you. _

_ A pause. She’s looking Patsy up and down and you will the ground to open up and take you whole. _

_ “With the greatest of respect, Mrs. Busby,” she begins, “while I understand this is perhaps not what you had in mind for your daughter, I can assure you she is happy.”  _

_ Her sculpted accent makes her seem abrupt, cold, even unfeeling. Your mother lets her continue as your cheeks glow red. _

_ “I promise that I will do everything in my power to give your daughter everything she deserves.”  _

_ She dares to clasp your hand under the table, a bold move despite the tablecloth that conceals the gesture. Your mother pauses, sipping at her cappuccino. A smile breaks out and you almost have to pinch yourself to check it’s reality. _

_ “I appreciate that, Patsy. I really do,” she smiles at Patsy and you squeeze the redhead's hand, still in its secret embrace, “all I want is for her to be safe and to be happy.” _

_ ~ _

“You know where I am. Always,” Delia says, looking at Shelby in the dim light of the streets as they pass by. 

“It makes an awful mess of things, doesn’t it?” she says, swallowing a lump in her throat. Delia nods.

“It does.” the Welshwomans tone is filled with unspoken pain, and Shelby is hesitant to say anymore. She brings the car to a halt outside the flat her two friends share. 

"It scares me," adds Shelby. 

"It is scary," replies Delia, "but there are people out there who don't see any difference. You're surrounded by them, Shelby. You saw them earlier."

“Thank you, Delia,” she says, turning to face the woman beside her.

“No, thank you,” replies Delia, “it’s your night off. You didn’t have to spend hours on a manhunt.” 

“If I only did things because I had to, I wouldn’t do the job I do,” sighs Shelby with a tired smile, “any time, Delia. I mean it.” Shelby rests her head on the headrest, watching Delia get out of the car, making sure she makes it safely inside.

She shakes her head, revving the car back to life before pulling off again. The road isn’t the main thought spiraling in her head as she starts the trek back to Doctor Turner’s.


	8. fear of the unknown.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well this one isn’t,” you say, inhaling nicotine, “I’m sorry that threatens you.” 

Shelby only means to leave the car and return the keys, but an invite for tea and biscuits with the Turners isn’t something many can refuse. She settles in the armchair, Shelagh handing her a still steaming teacup filled with caramel-coloured liquid. She graciously accepts, smiling at the woman, who sits beside her husband on the sofa. 

“It’s an awful shame, isn’t it, about Nurse Mount?” Shelagh says, sipping delicately at her own cup. Shelby nods.

“Poor woman’s been through a lot,” she says, uncertain of Shelagh’s knowledge on the subject. She accepts a cigarette handed to her from Patrick, lighting it and taking a steady drag.

“You’re right there, Doctor,” says Patrick, buried in the Lancet as his own cigarette burns between weathered fingers. 

“Shelby, please,” she says, with a warm smile.

“Patrick isn’t one for letting go of formalities,” says Shelagh, a hand resting on his thigh.

In dull lamplight, her wedding band, in all its humble nature, glints and announces it’s silvery presence. Shelby notes it as it gleams up at her. It makes her stomach turn a little, not out of hatred or disgust, out of something she can’t put her finger on. 

It is akin to guilt, which makes sense given the subject matter. Perhaps it's jealousy, although she’d much rather it wasn’t. She sniffs, clearing her head, inhaling nicotine. 

“Suppose it’s not very safe for girls like her,” adds the Scottish woman.

Shelby’s heart drops to the floor.

“You know?” she asks, flicking the growing ash of her cigarette into the ashtray. Shelagh nods, slowly, sadly. The air is noticeably thick with tension along with the smoke. 

“It’s just one of those things,” adds Patrick without even a glance from his reading.

“Yes,” agrees Shelagh, “they’re both such lovely girls as well.” Shelby looks to face her.

“You say that as if they’ve done something wrong,” Shelby interjects. Her tone isn’t aggressive per se, but it’s cutting, adamant. 

“Well, no, not to me they haven’t,” defends Shelagh. Her heart is in all the right places.

“It shouldn’t be wrong to anyone,” Shelby adds, stubbing the end of her cigarette into the ashtray, crushing it with an orange glow. 

~

_There are not many moments of your life in which you have known peace. The seven years leading up to your father’s disappearance are the quietest, most serene that you can recall. The world has been volatile since._

_You are twelve when your mother finds out where your eldest sister's flourishing income truly comes from. The world turns upside down once she discovers that the girl you owe the moon and stars to has her pockets lined by men who don’t respect her even a fraction of the amount you do. It is a conversation you’re not supposed to hear, but perhaps one you are destined to._

_Your mother shouts until her voice is reduced to a scratchy whisper. Your sister is reduced to tears and your only instinct is to wrap your arms around her tiny waist, to cling on and aim to ease the burden. This only directs the onslaught towards you, your sister pushing you away to protect what little glitter still exists in your already doomed heart._

_“There is enough shame brought upon this family by your father,” your mother spits at her, your heart dropping as she seems to reopen the wound for everyone._

_“I did it for us!” Nancy screams back, tears slipping down her face in rapid succession, “You’re killing yourself working three jobs!”_

_Her hand leaves the pocket of her dress, producing a wad of notes, some crisper than others._

_“What about when you get killed out there?” comes your mother's reply, her nose turning at the money._

_~_

Trixie up-ends the bottle, lotion seeping into the cotton pad as she removes her eyeliner. Once all traces of pan-stick leave her face, Trixie ponders for a moment. She stares into the mirror, soaking in deep blue eyes that seem so far removed from her now. 

She inhales sharply, the room behind her catching her eye. Shelby’s scarf lies discarded across the sheets of her bed and Trixie huffs out a little smile at the sight of it. 

She rises, taking it in her hands, preparing to hang it up. Instead, she holds the fabric tight, letting it squish between slender fingers. The musky scent of Shelby’s favoured perfume floats up, hitting Trixie all at once. 

It is then, and only then that Trixie lets herself admit the truth to herself. 

She settles on her own bed, the scarf laying over her silk covered lap. After a brief reflective moment, she drapes it back over the bed frame, crawling under her own covers.

The tears soak into the pillow as quickly as they fall.

Shelby trudges in shortly after, head cloudy with sleep. She settles onto her bed, giving herself a second to breathe as she eases off her shoes. 

Trixie sleeps soundly in the bed opposite, blonde hair a soft halo of pins and rollers. Shelby lets herself watch for a moment, the room quiet, only the gentle whisper of Trixie’s breath audible in the silence.

It is then that she catches herself. Shakes her head, rubbing her eyes as she continues getting ready to sleep herself. She is uncertain whether it is said aloud or in her head, but a mental note is made clear.

“I’m not going there.” 

~

_Your experience with sexuality is tangled, covered in thorns and no entry signs._

_You know it brings pain, being different, that it tears apart families. Although, this is a lesson you learn long after the actual experience. For years, all your father’s plight had brought you to your knowledge was a matriarchy and a new red coat._

_You know it brings violence, showcased as the house a few doors down is reduced to ash and smouldering beams, its inhabitants fleeing into mist amid rumours and an angry mob. The angry whispers on the streets that follow, the headlines, the slurs, they stick into your brain even at your small age although you have no idea why you feel so deeply for the two women chased from the inferno they once called home._

_You know it brings shame, you know that from your mother's words, the way she spits them at your sister, denying the wad of banknotes held out in trembling hands. It’s enough for two weeks' groceries, perhaps three at a stretch, but to your mother, it is dirty money. It is not concealed in an envelope from any factory or shopkeeping job- it is thrust into quiet hands from the wallets of men with no dignity, who believe your sister has none either._

_Sexuality and the expression of it is painful. It brings punishment, rejection and shame._

_That is all you know._

_~_

Delia is at Nonnatus again the next morning, seated at the table as she did only a few years prior. Only this time, there is an emptiness, a presence missing that nobody needs to explain. She informs them over tea and toast that the police have closed the case. With no sightings and no lead to go on, Patsy may as well have vanished into thin air.

Delia doesn’t doubt it’s something she’s capable of. 

Passing glances are the only exchange between the two blondes of Nonnatus. Shelby stands at the stove, mixing hot milk with Ovaltine, watching the swirling beige in the pot for perhaps longer than needed. Trixie is seated at the table, conversing in her usual style- with everyone. Besides one.

Phyllis has it noted, of course, being Phyllis. She shrugs it off at first, well aware of Trixie's silent distress for her missing friend. The pointed silence towards one individual, in particular, leads her mind astray, although that is a thought process that will remain just that. 

It’s easy to avoid someone during a busy workday. Shelby assists at the clinic, as does Trixie, although the stampede of babies and mothers leaves little time spare. 

“No, I want a doctor!” comes a shout from a blocked off cubicle. 

“Mrs Grove, I assure you that you’re already being seen by one,” Shelby says, stethoscope held slack in her hand. The woman shakes her head and Shelby exchanges a glance with Lucille. Shelby sighs, pulling a chair opposite the woman, taking a seat and making solid eye contact.

“They don’t just give these lovely white coats to anyone,” she says with a flash of her charming smile, eyes glinting to match, “I promise you, that you are in the best hands.” 

The woman softens, allowing Shelby to perform the checks she needs, although the air of reluctance lingers still.

~

_Little fish in a big pond._

_There are plenty of metaphors in the history of English literature that describe you as you stand amongst your male peers._

_The first female doctor ever to graduate from your school._

_If they have their way, you’ll be the last. The only._

_“Women are nurses,” says one indignant man as you share a smoke break, the entire silverware drawer clearly handed to him on a matching platter, forget just the spoon. You smile at him, neither shy nor naive._

_“Well this one isn’t,” you say, inhaling nicotine, “I’m sorry that threatens you.”_

_You lean into the back of the bench, arm slung lazily over the carved wood._

_“I never said it threatened me,” he scoffs, hurling his cigarette butt over into the lawn._

_“It shouldn’t be a problem then,” is your reply. He rolls his eyes, blatant and angry before he rises from his seat. There is no reply as he heads back to the building he came from. You blow the smoke towards his retreating figure, unable to fight the smirk developing on your lips._

_~_

“I heard the way that woman spoke to you in there,” Trixie says, her tone empathetic. Shelby shrugs, not looking up from the samples she’s busy labelling.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” comes the reply. There’s a pause before Trixie sits at the table beside Shelby.

“It shouldn’t have to be that way, though,” she says, a hand on Shelby’s own which rests on the table. The taller blonde stiffens at the touch, licking her lips before turning to face Trixie.

“There are a lot of things that shouldn’t have to be the way they are,” she says, taking in Trixie’s face as they live out a moment of unbroken eye contact, “but the world is strange. Broken, one may say,”

Trixie’s face falls, eyes wandering to the floor. The implications of that, especially lately, are deep and painful. Both for her friends and for herself.

“It’s up to those who see that to fix it, then, I suppose?” she replies, her hand leaving Shelby’s.

Their eyes meet once again. 

A pause.

Shelby stands, box in hand, ready for mailing. 

She turns.

Trixie swallows, hard.

She isn’t sure which of them leaned in most.


	9. love and loss.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nurse Busby has confirmed it belonged to your friend,"

Shelby doesn’t wait for Trixie. She heads off with Phyllis under the guise of unfiled paperwork awaiting at home.

She felt her body shift. Closer to Trixie. Closer to danger. Closer to

Red.

Her body lurches a little as Phyllis brings the car to a halt. The older woman looks over briefly, eyebrows furrowed.

“Everything alright, lass?” she asks. Shelby huffs a little smile, nodding.

“My gran used to call me that,” she says, looking at the woman driving. She sighs, “just a little under the weather. I’ll be alright.” Phyllis smiles at her, weak, but warm. 

“Take care of yourself,” she says, pulling away from the traffic light at long last, “it’s easy for you youngsters to get burned out. I’ve seen it before,” 

Shelby sighs, her chest suddenly tight. She simply nods at Phyllis, returning the smile, the pounding in her head, and of her heart only worsening. They round the corner, only the quiet hum of the engine and the slight thud of the gearbox audible. 

“Who’s parked in my space?” asks a disgruntled Phyllis as she pulls her car into the only other available spot. The question needs no answer as they see the white letters adorning the small sign atop the car. Shelby inhales sharply as she steps from the car. 

The pair enter, shrugging off coats and capes, greeting an empty dining room. Hushed voices lead them to the sitting room where the present residents of Nonnatus gathered on the sofas. Shelby’s eyes dart rapidly, from a solemn Sister Julienne to a worried Sister Frances, to the uniformed officer sitting bolt upright in the chair at the far side.

Then, to Lucille.

Sitting on the sofa, her arms wrapped tight around a crying Delia. 

~

Trixie sighs, fiddling with the buckle on the holdall of her bike. She huffs in frustration, slightly trembling hands doing her no favours. It finally slips into place and she swings a leg over the seat, setting off finally.

At the crossroads that would take her home, she decides against it. Breathes out deeply, the April sun watery and warm on her back. She takes the right, familiarity seeping into her blood.

She pulls the bike to a screeching halt. Looks up at the peeling paint of the sign ahead.

“J & Sons Tobacco & Liquor.” 

There’s a lump in her throat and she swallows, hard. Lets go of a breath she doesn’t realise she’s been holding before shaking her head, trying to shake away the mist that clouds all she can see.

She sets off again, tears welling quicker and quicker. Finding herself at a quaint little park, one that holds ghosts and memories that she hasn’t faced even still, she leans her bike against the trunk of an oak, taking a seat at the bench.

Last time she sat there, she realises, she was joined by a sweet brunette with a heart of gold.

~

_ “What’s this about, Barbara?” you ask. Your tone is perhaps a little harsh, although you don’t mean it to. Barbara softens. _

_ “Listen, Trixie,” she starts, lacing her fingers with your own, “you know that I love you, and I think I always will,”  _

_ You nod. The smell of fresh-cut grass enters your nose, sweet, overwhelming. Funnily enough, that’s how you’d describe the girl who currently sits running her thumb across your knuckles. _

_ “I know,” you answer, raspy, through tears, “but you’re not in love with me.” _

_ You can’t bear to look at her, instead fixating on a daisy that stands, blowing in the gentle breeze. From the corner of your eye, you see her nod. It’s faint, almost hesitant, but it’s there.  _

_ “I don’t even know if it’s that,” she says, choking back tears, you suspect, as much as you are, “but it can’t happen, can it?”  _

_ The hand not clasped firmly within your own shifts, placed gently beneath your chin, as she makes you meet her eyes.  _

_ “I’ll always love you, Trixie. Always. But Tom is someone I can love freely,” she says, her hand stroking your cheek softly, “it makes it all easier. For us both.”  _

_ ~ _

“Nurse Busby has confirmed it belonged to your friend,” says the officer. 

Shelby’s eyes dart again, falling upon the burgundy scarf laying in Delia’s lap. Her fingers trace the stitched initials on the label, over and over again.

“It’s her nurses' scarf. All the midwives that work with us own one, as part of their uniform,” Sister Julienne’s voice is wavering, cracking slightly as she speaks. Shelby doesn’t doubt she has expressed her own share of grief. The red that outlines her usual sparkling eyes tells a tale without words. 

Delia nods.

“I put those initials in for her,” she cracks a little smile, “she never did know how to sew,”

There is a brief silence.

The clock in the hall is the only noise, rhythmic ticking filling the gaps in the air. 

The door is heard swinging shut, Trixie’s voice heard as she greets an empty kitchen. 

She appears at the doorway, her usually bright smile suddenly wiped away.

“Good evening, officer,” she says, panic clear in her tone.

~

_ “Oh, hello Valerie! What a pleasant surprise!”  _

_ You sit in the bay window of your godmother’s villa, phone pressed tight to your ear as you overlook the bustling riviera. For all the silk gowns and fancy mocktails your life consists of presently, hearing the rough cockney of your friend over the phone fills you with more warmth than the harsh Italian sunshine. _

_ “I’m afraid it’s not that pleasant, Trix.” she begins, crackly over the line. You feel your heart sink. _

_ “It’s Babs.”  _

_ You drop into bed that night, satin sheets enveloping you. Closing you in. You let your heart break. All that fills your head is the girl you loved. Love. _

_ The thought of her being ill, being in pain, before slipping away, is almost too much to bear. You sob into the pillow as you wish, more than anything, you could have held her hand, running your nails over her palm as you did so many times before. _

_ Your heart breaks as you lie there and you vow that it will never break again after that. _

_ ~ _

Shelby enters the kitchen, headed for the kettle. She sets it atop the stove, before turning to the table. She is joined only by Lucille and she takes her chance to sit opposite. The other girl is engrossed in writing paper and penny stamps.

“Lucille,” she starts. The brunette’s head darts up, smiling weakly, “I wanted to apologise. For the other day,”

Lucille smiles, capping her pen as she twirls it between her fingers.

“Look, I didn’t mind about the whole bed situation. You know what Trixie’s like, though. Gets what she wants with nothing but a smile and wink,” Shelby says, smiling.

Lucille nods.

“It’s okay, precious,” she says, “Valerie was… very special to me,”

Shelby nods, understanding.

“You were good friends, I don’t blame you.” 

Lucille’s eyes divert as she sighs.

“We were a little more than that, I suppose,” another sigh, “but it doesn’t matter now.” 

“Is that… is that who you’re writing to?” Shelby gestures towards the sheet of stamps laying on the table. Lucille nods sadly.

“I thought she didn’t leave an address?” continues Shelby, tilting her head slightly.

“She didn’t,” Lucille says, eyes falling to the scrawled page beneath her hands, “I’m still hoping one day there may be an envelope with a return address.” 

Shelby smiles sadly, reaching out to cover Lucille’s hand with her own. She’s interrupted by the demanding whistle of the kettle. 

~

_ Your return home is bittersweet. _

_ What awaits you is loving arms, Christmas with your chosen family, and your return to the job you love. _

_ However, there is also empty space, a gap in the air usually filled with light laughter, and an impending sense of darkness you’ve only just grappled yourself out of. _

_ Everyone seems so healed.  _

_ By definition, so should you. _

_ But you can’t help but feel hot anger deep in the center of your chest.  _

_ They grieved, together, holding vigils and late-night chats filled with well-sugared tea when they found themselves unable to rest. _

_ They all donned black, read poems, said the final goodbye. _

_ You got none of that. _

_ And it angers you, because, other than Tom, who seems to have also done a disappearing act, nobody feels the grief you truly feel. To them, you’re grieving a friend, a coworker. _

_ You’re the only one who knows you mourn much more. _

_ ~ _

Shelby knocks gently, three times in a rhythmic pattern that tells Trixie exactly who stands at the other side. She enters, hearing a mutter.

“You don’t have to knock,” says Trixie, weakly, “it’s your room too.” 

Shelby feels her cheeks burn a little.

“Sorry, just habit,” she says, handing Trixie the saucer, cup gently balanced atop it, “thought you’d prefer the time alone.” 

Trixie sits up, eyes bleary, patting the cover next to her. Shelby takes a careful seat.

“How are you feeling?” she asks. There’s a moment of silence. “Sorry. Awful question.” 

Trixie smiles through tears. Shelby hesitates, taking Trixie’s hand in her own.

“I’ll be alright,” she begins, meaning clearly to continue although she struggles for the words.

“But you’re not alright now,” Shelby says, allowing her thumb to graze Trixie’s knuckles. The other blonde shakes her head, gently.

“This whole idea of love and grief,” she shrugs, “cuts a little deep, is all.” 

The implications of her words are vast, yet Shelby likes to think she’s caught them regardless. She nods. She gets it, not even just from a theoretical perspective.

A glossy tear slips from Trixie’s eye, trailing down her soft pink cheek. Shelby reaches forwards, wary, gentle, brushing it away with her thumb, letting her hand linger on the side of Trixie’s face. Trixie melts into the touch.

“Get some sleep, darl,” Shelby says, quietly, “you look like you need it.” 

Trixie doesn’t argue.

She also doesn’t argue with Shelby lifting her hand in her own, planting a soft kiss to the top. 

~

_ The cobbled path your bike currently bounces along feels so familiar to you now. The big iron gates are welcoming, not in appearance, but because you know what lies beneath. _

_ You trace rows and columns in your head, finally finding the right plot. _

_ You take the bouquet of violets from your holdall, straightening a few stray petals before you lay them in front of the stone. You press a gentle kiss to your hand, laying it against the marble. _

_ You glance up to the sky as the sun peers out from the clouds, warming your body, almost as though she’s wrapping you in her arms as she did so often before she left you. _

_ “Forever and always, Babs,” you say, taking your leave. _

_ ~ _

Trixie blinks awake, eyes aching from the single lamplight. Shelby looks up from her laces as she stirs. Trixie lies no more than a half a metre from her as she faces into the gap between beds.

“Lisbon Buildings,” she whispers, “they need a doctor and muggins here is on call.” She leans forward, giving Trixie’s arm a gentle squeeze before clicking the lamp off.

Shelby slips out, heading from the front door, taking her bike handlebars and wheeling it off down the road. She takes in the night air, ensuring she’s awake before she gets on it properly.

She’s a few streets down, still slightly bleary from sleep.

She suddenly finds herself bumping into a figure as she goes.

“Sorry!” the pair say in sync.

Shelby continues, accepting the figure’s apology.

She stops.

The deep, pointed accent.

She turns on her heel.

The figure has well passed now.

All that Shelby can see in the dull streetlamps is a long mop of ginger hair.


	10. the sun and the moon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whatever we go through, we go through together," you pleaded with her, her hand firmly gripped in your own, "you don't have to run anymore." 

Trixie blinks awake, bile already rising in her throat with a taste on her tongue she knows has only one remedy. She shakes her head, attempting to clear the fog that clouds within. Her heart is a dead weight in her chest as she tugs on her uniform, unpins rollers and sprays lacquer as though her best friend isn't suspected dead. She can smell the scent of slightly overdone toast wafting from the kitchen below- presumably Sister Monica Joan's doing, as is standard, and it turns her stomach. Patting the pan stick under purple eyes, she bites back tears, vowing to keep normality intact.

Sitting with her legs over the edge of the bed, Delia presses her palms into the sockets of her eyes, rubbing hard, creating stars. She reckons she could count the number of hours she’s slept the past few days on one hand and it certainly shows. Her fair complexion is burdened by stress blemishes, deep purple rings surrounding dulled blue eyes which once shone with curiosity and with love. One single mug lays discarded in the sink, she notes, as she trails downstairs, creaking floorboards creating a melancholy symphony. It's adorned with a simple design, part of a matching set, its partner sitting in the cupboard as normal. Delia huffs out a sigh upon reflection, the realisation hitting her that the two mugs very much represent the women who own them at present.

_ Patsy Mount is used to running from what scares her. It is something you are painfully aware of, something you find yourself having to deal with sooner than you are ready.  _

_ She'd been burdened for weeks by the time it happened. Barely sleeping, gulping cups of coffee far stronger than she usually preferred as a fragile solution. You knew what troubled her generally, although often not specifically. Despite your vague knowledge, you didn't need her entire biography to see she was struggling as she buried herself in the covers, the dim light still too bright, the lightest of touches painful and dangerous. _

_ You brought it to Sister Julienne. Told her Patsy was crippled with migraines, knowing she'd never forgive you for being truthful. She couldn't work in the state she was in, hell, she couldn't even open her eyes without a wince. Sister Julienne gave her a couple of weeks to recover, which you received with gratitude, biting your tongue at what you really felt about it all.  _

_ Then, you returned to an empty home.  _

_ No sign, no note, no trace of where she was headed, or why. You waited and waited, for a sign, for her to be sat at the kitchen table, some obscure novel from time ago stuck firmly in her hand. Ached to wake up in the dead of night to an icy chill, seeing her in the pale moonlight, sitting at the open window, a cigarette burning bright amber against a pitch-black canvas.  _

_ As quickly as Patsy vanished, she returned, out of the blue. She wouldn't say why she left, or where she had been. The relief washed away the anger you felt deep in the pit of your stomach, but you made her promise one thing. You never liked putting her on the spot with promises, but you felt it was something you both needed equally. _

_ "Whatever we go through, we go through together," you pleaded with her, her hand firmly gripped in your own, "you don't have to run anymore."  _

  
  


Shelby enters Nonnatus, body heavy with fatigue as she heads to the kitchen. Trixie stands at the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil, arms folded.

"Alright, Bea?" asks Shelby, face dropping as she senses the unease filling the room, emanating from Trixie. Shelby approaches with great caution, reaching for Trixie's arm. The smaller woman inhales sharply, pulling away as though Shelby's touch burns. In a way, she feels, it does. 

"Is it me?" says the other woman, her chest tight at Trixie's behaviour as she realises the potential source, "The other day, when I lea-" 

"No. Not here. Not now." says Trixie, sharp and brutal. Her eyes bore into Shelby, the taller woman's cheeks burning pink.

"Look, Trixie, don't get me wrong," she starts, adamant, "but you leaned in as much as I did." 

Trixie smirks mockingly, rolling her eyes in pure Trixie fashion.

"Don't you get it?" she says, her tone verging onto patronisation, "I'd rather leave it." 

Shelby folds her arms, huffing a sigh.

"You can't just act like that and then leave me to feel as though I've done wrong," 

Trixie pauses, face burning crimson in emotion she can't quite place, although she's not entirely convinced it's anger. She grasps for something that will force Shelby's adamance down.

"You know, I really would've thought you'd have learned from your dad." 

The words are sharp, hitting Shelby like ice, her heart skipping a beat as they dig in. She stutters over her words as she grasps for them

"That's too far, even for you," she says, her voice weakened in shock.

"It's not too far, Shelby," Trixie says, turning her back on the taller woman, "it's the reality of it all." 

Before she can respond, Shelby feels a warm hand laying on her shoulder. She turns, seeing the kind face of her most senior colleague.

"Leave her, lass," says Phyllis, her tone soft, "go get some shut-eye. You need it after the night you've had," 

Shelby nods, Phyllis giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The younger girl can't bear to turn and give a last glance to the woman who furiously tips the remainders of her tea in the sink, lukewarm as it splashes forcefully against the edges of the sink. 

Phyllis listens carefully for the closing of the bedroom door, wilfully ignoring the slight thud that insinuates it wasn't closed gently.

"Beatrix," she says, suddenly stern and cool. The use of her full name makes Trixie's body stiffen as she turns, leaning against the counter again.

"Phyllis, please," she sighs, closing her eyes as she rubs her temples with both hands, her tone defeated. Phyllis pauses, taking a few steps towards the blonde, knowing she won't run from her if anyone.

"I'm not here to lecture you," she says, quiet yet demanding, "simply a concerned friend." 

A pause.

"Hand me the coffee mug." 

Trixie rolls her eyes, planting it firmly in Phyllis' palm, knowing exactly her unspoken intentions. The older woman nods, placing it on the table beside her.

"You don't have to babysit me, Phyllis," she says, "I'm not a child." 

"No, you're right," says Phyllis, "you're not normally that cold, either, lass. Although for once, I'm glad to be wrong." 

_ You are the moon. _

_ Pale, yet bright. Cold and calm, bringing soft quiet in your wake. It is in the darkness that you thrive, keeping the peace, and providing safety and security. _

_ Patsy is the sun. Bright, yet harsh. Blinding those who get too close, although she never means harm. She is nurturing, beautiful, yet painful, and fleeting. When she is gone, it is noted, although she escapes often, saying nothing.  _

_ The sun finds solace in the moon, as it is the moon that relieves the sun of its obligation to shine each night. When the moon takes its shift, the sun may rest, is allowed to be still and quiet.  _

_ The sun, in return, guides the moon. Aids it from the horizon each morning, illuminating it each night. The moon is quiet yet duly noted, highlighted by the sun's rays, which themselves are impossible to ignore. _

_ The thing with the sun is that it always returns. _

Shelby lies awake, her head pounding right behind her eyes. Her eyes trace minute cracks in the paint of the ceiling, stomach turning too much to sleep, despite the exhaustion creeping over her body. Trixie's words make up most of the current spiral, the sentence spat at her with venom she didn't realise Trixie was capable of.

She is painfully aware of the risk, of course, she is. She is more than capable of realising the consequences for love like the one she has for her colleague, yet she can't force it down. It lingers, sticking around like a revolver primed and ready for Russian roulette. 

"Lucille, that was Mr. Hartnell," she hears faintly outside the door. She hears the footsteps double before they fade back into nothing, the front door closing with a creak as always as Trixie leaves.

It seems that lately, all the chambers have been loaded. 

Her heavy eyes drop closed.

It's gone six by the time Shelby eventually awakens, the sky darkened outside. The moon is announcing its presence with dim light and Shelby settles back into the pillows for a moment.

_ Patsy. _

There isn't much time before the quick flash of a thought and Shelby being fully dressed, taking her burgundy overcoat from its discarded position over the bottom of her bed.

Nonnatus is a ghost town, it appears, although September is always a busy point for the midwives, being directly nine months after the cold, long winter nights. 

Sister Monica Joan is curled up, fast asleep in the armchair as she passes the lounge, glasses crooked as Doctor Who continues playing to nobody in particular. Shelby pulls her hair out from the neck of her coat, continuing out of the front door.

She decides against the bike, deciding the walk there will clear her head sufficiently. The emotions spiraling through her head vary- there's a fire in her veins, manifesting from the anger she still feels after coming to blows with Trixie. Sadness mixes in, predominately in the form of shame. Guilt, although Shelby doesn't see what she has to feel guilty for. 

Patsy and Delia's flat comes into view and it suddenly hits Shelby that it is midweek, with Delia fleeting between district practice and secondment to the London, she realises the journey may have been futile. She curls her hands into fists as she approaches, pressing the doorbell with one slender finger.

Delia shuffles to the door, opening it only a crack. She smiles weakly upon seeing Shelby, opening it further. The taller woman silently thanks her well-built manner as Delia falls into her arms, holding on as though the world is crumbling beneath her. Shelby pinders the fact that that may not be far from the truth, if only metaphorically. 

"It's alright, darling, I promise," soothes Shelby, letting Delia hold on as long as she needs. A few moments pass before Delia lets go, shivering slightly as they stand in the cold air. She smiles, inviting Shelby inside and shutting out the bitter September. 

The bottle of scotch is placed on the table with a slight annoyance, two glasses joining it as Delia unscrews the top. 

“I’m almost certain, Delia,” says Shelby, shrugging her coat onto the back of the chair, “I’m almost as surprised as you that she isn’t here.” 

"Do you know, Shelby," begins Delia, pouring two measures into each glass, "this isn't the first time she's disappeared on me." 

"Why does she do it?" asks Shelby, harsh spirit burning at her throat, though warm and pleasant. Delia shrugs.

"Fear?" she says, holding her own glass to her cheek after perhaps too eager of a sip, "The thing about Patsy is she doesn't bloody talk." 

"Lots of people don't," says Shelby, running a finger around the rim of her glass, "they just let it build up." 

Delia nods.

"I made her promise me she wouldn't do it, yet she has," there is a pause as the glass drains, "and left me here to deal with whatever bloody mess she's got us in, all by myself." 

Shelby nods, placing her glass on the table, leaning forward to take Delia's hand in her own.

"You're not alone, Delia," she says, soft, gentle. Delia meets her eyes.

Meets her lips.

It's quick, their heads buzzing and spinning yet suddenly wide awake and fully aware. 

Shelby lets out a small gasp as she finds her back pressed hard against the wall of the kitchen, hands coming to rest at Delia's waist.

Delia's own hand wanders, traveling south, Shelby's hips bucking forwards as curious fingertips trace circles. 

The blonde clamps a hand to her mouth as Delia tugs at her zip, revealing what she's so eager to find. She whispers soft moans into the palm still covering her mouth as she comes undone in Delia's hands. 

The brunette's experience is evident, though so is her anger as the adrenaline flows between them, as easily as the scotch flowed just moments before.

Shelby's climbing, ecstasy washing over her in waves, crashing on the shore, as Delia nips at her shoulder, at her collarbone. It's beyond reason, really, that the woman she imagines, if only for a moment, flicks platinum blonde hair over her own shoulder, almost white waves that flow and bounce with angelic ease. 

Another moan, another wave crashing down. She's back to reality. She can ponder the implications later. 

Shelby lets out a long, drawn-out moan, spine arching as she clings to Delia, hands tangled in free-flowing brown hair. 

Messily dressed, hair swept from her still flushed face- easier to explain in the appearance of a certain redhead, although tonight Delia isn't entirely sure she cares.

Shelby lays on her back, looking straight up toward the ceiling, her heart still thumping loudly in her chest. Delia lays to her side, propped up on one elbow. Shelby takes a deep breath, lets her hand find Delia's, however hesitantly.

"You know… you know what I said the other night, Delia?" Shelby says, her mouth suddenly dry, voice cracking slightly. She feels movement as Delia nods. 

"I think…" 

Delia squeezes her hand.

"I think I know for definite now." 

They lie in silence, the pendulum of the grandfather clock out in the hallway swinging rhythmically. Delia rests her head closer to Shelby, suddenly unaccustomed to warmth beside her. 

In the soft silence, it is hard to acknowledge the creeping guilt. It is easier to simply feel it. 

  
  



	11. making amends.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Never again will Beatrix Franklin let a man define her worth."

It takes a moment of recalibration, of realisation as to who owns the brown hair fluttering across the pillow beside her, before Shelby is bolt upright, head buzzing. Delia stirs next to her, propping herself up on both elbows.

“Not a word?” she says, voice groggy with sleep. Shelby nods frantically, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and pulling on her discarded shoes. 

“I didn’t hate it,” says the brunette after a few moments. Shelby pauses, sitting up straight again. 

“Neither. But it doesn’t leave this flat, that’s for damn sure,” 

Delia nods, watching the blonde pull on her coat. In this light, she observes just how much she looks like the usual ginger occupant of the room and the thought tightens her chest with guilt. 

Simply blowing off steam. That’s what it shall stay. 

“I don’t want it to make things strange, Delia,” Shelby says, pausing as she tightens the belt of her coat. 

“No, I don’t either,” is the reply, quietly, “so we move on like adults. For everyone’s sake,” 

Shelby nods, straightening her collar and heading for the front door. She pauses before her hand can reach for the handle, heading back to where the brunette still sits.

“Are you going to tell Patsy?” she asks, quiet voice tinged in an emotion Delia can’t place, whether it be fear, anxiety, guilt, or a hearty mixture of all three. Delia shakes her head with vigour.

“She’ll only blame herself,” answers the woman sat shrouded in darkness.

“I don’t think blame really comes into things, Delia,” replies Shelby.

“Try telling her that,” 

The street outside is deserted and a glance at the clock on Chrisp Street tells her it’s gone midnight by the point she makes her way down empty cobbles. Her hands ball into fists in her pockets as she walks, breath clouding into condensation and trailing upwards. She takes the longest route she knows, her head heavy with thought. There are ends to be tied, secrets to be kept and conversations to be had.

Nonnatus House comes into view and Shelby pauses briefly, taking a deep breath.

_ You’ve always had a reputation for boys. _

_ Ever since you could walk, since you could talk, since your mother started setting your hair in perfect blonde ringlets. _

_ “Our little Trixie,” they’d say, high pitched and gooey, “she’ll be a little heartbreaker one day.” _

_ There’s nothing more to it, really. _

_ Your deep-set dimples and crystal blue eyes serve only to make your father smile as he struggles through burdens.  _

_ Your value is in other people’s joy, a lesson you learn devastatingly early. _

_ It’s only logical that your first kiss is miles before everybody else’s. _

_ If a boy finds you pretty, that is a gift, an honour, and should be treated as such.  _

_ Red lipstick becomes your armour, cherry red and devious in nature. As you get older, you learn that you can trade quick kisses for the things you want- the expensive cigarettes stolen from a desk drawer, a hearty swig of liquor, a material pittance really.  _

_ It becomes your routine- slipping out once your father’s pills send him to sleep, face painted to perfection, a neat coat of red accentuating your cupid's bow. Sometimes coins line the inside of your little velvet coin purse, sometimes they don’t. You have your own ways and methods of getting the things you want. _

_ Then it is your game, playing up sweet, naive Trixie, sending the boys brains to anywhere but their head in exchange for Sobranies and whiskey. Like any game, there are winners and there are losers, although it will take you time to realise you do not belong in the first category as you always thought you did. _

“Trixie,” says Shelby, as she breezes past the blonde, heading for the kettle sitting on the stove. Trixie looks up from her own cup of tea.

“What happened to Bea?” she asks. Shelby scoffs a little.

“Thought that would be reserved for people you don’t hate,” says the taller woman, dropping a tea bag into her cup with slight aggression. Trixie digs her teeth into her bottom lip briefly.

“Look, Shelby,” she starts, pausing to see if the woman will turn to face her, unsurprised when Shelby continues making her tea, “what I said was out of order. I wasn’t thinking,”

“Well, maybe you should have done,” says Shelby, recoiling as she catches her hand on the still hot metal of the kettle. Trixie rises from her seat, taking Shelby’s burnt hand in her own, softly, although neither makes any attempt for eye contact.

“I know. I took out anger on you that should never have been yours to take,” Trixie pauses as she holds Shelby’s hand under the gently running cold tap, “what I said, I didn’t mean. I’m sure your father was very brave for what he went through. Braver than I ever could be, for sure,” 

Shelby nods slowly, and Trixie is certain she sees tears forming. Shelby lets out a breath she doesn’t realise she’s been holding, letting Trixie dab her hand dry with the tea towel. 

“I understand why you’d be scared,” she says after a moment, “although you’re right. I should be more scared, but I’m not Trixie, I’m not at all.” 

Trixie nods, rubbing the top of Shelby’s arm as the blonde moves to lean against the counter, eyes still pointed towards the floor. 

“It’s just, I know the risk, and I know the possible consequence,” she continues, folding her arms, palms held onto her elbows as though she’s keeping herself held tight, “but it doesn’t scare me. Perhaps it’s simple foolishness,” 

“I don’t think foolish is the right word, Shelby,” says Trixie, leaning on the counter right beside Shelby, letting her weary head drop against the taller woman’s shoulder, “bravery, perhaps? Something tells you it’s nothing to be afraid of,”

Shelby takes a breath.

“What tells you that it is?” 

A pause.

“Well, Patsy’s…” she trails off, unable to finish. Shelby’s body stiffens at the mention of the missing redhead.

Missing. 

“Trixie,” she says, breathless, “I could be wrong, but the other night when I was on my way back from my call out,” 

Another steadying breath.

“I think I bumped into her.” 

_ “Another excellent result,” says the woman behind the desk, “you know, Beatrix, if only you applied yourself.”  _

_ You take back the science paper, eyes soaking in the high mark scribed onto the top of it, a small smile forming. _

_ There is only one thing for you to do. _

_ The seed was always there- for midwifery, that is, the idea of being at the heart of a community, welcoming new life, being surrounded by joy.  _

_ It’s in your hands now, and boy do you grasp it. _

_ Overnight, you trade painfully crafted ringlets for a simple and humble style, pinned out of your face and prioritising practicality in favour of fashion, the red ruby lipstick you once wore with such pride finding itself cast to the bottom of your wastepaper basket. The only thing that matters to you now is your ticket out of the town you despise so angrily, the one-way pass away from those who hurt you. _

_ No longer are your nights spent smoking and flirting, instead, you pore over textbooks until your eyes ache in pale lamplight, taking in every last word and note. _

_ “You’re a wasted beauty,” are the words thrown your way on your first day of training. You shrug them off, on the outside, at least- you’d be lying to say they didn’t hit at least somewhat. _

_ But the Beatrix Franklin who found worth in makeup and boys is gone. She’s been left behind with the men and boys who needed her to be so prim and proper, their own Barbie doll with whom they could do what they pleased. You no longer find comfort in impressing the opposite sex- hell, you don’t even find any joy in it anymore. _

_ You entered as naive, airheaded Trixie, and you will leave as Nurse Beatrix Franklin. Whether your life depends on it.  _

“Now are you absolutely positive that this was Nurse Mount you bumped into?” 

Shelby nods, refusing to meet the police officer's eyes as she and Trixie sit across from him.

“Her accent stood out a mile away, officer,” replies the blonde as she picks at her thumbnail, “I thought she would have gone home, but I-” 

Shelby takes a sudden intake of breath as she realises she has the potential to incriminate herself, not to the officer, of course, but to the nun and midwife sat beside her.

“Continue, please, Doctor,” says the officer in a gruff tone, eyebrows raised, “this statement needs to be fully comprehensible,”

“I went round to see Delia and there was no sign of Patsy… Nurse Busby, and Nurse Mount,”

A pause.

“Why were you at Nurse Busby’s address?” asks the officer. Shelby sighs slightly.

“Simply offering some support, officer,” replies the blonde, “although I can’t see how it’s relevant here.” 

The officer nods. He stands to leave, shaking Sister Julienne’s hand before taking his leave, the older nun in tow as they head out of the lounge. 

“What was that about?” asks Trixie once the door closes. Shelby shrugs.

“No idea,” she says, “I suppose they need to check all their paths, don’t they?” 

“I miss Patsy,” Trixie says after a moment of quiet. Shelby wraps an arm around the blonde’s shoulders, letting her fall against her.

“She’ll be alright,” says the taller woman, letting Trixie’s hand find her own. They lace together with a certainty that suggests they were made to be linked.

“I only wish we could do more, Shelby,” she replies after a moment, “it feels so wrong to simply continue on with our lives,” 

Shelby nods.

“I know, I know it does. But you know Patsy’s a stickler for routine,” she says with a slight smile, which she hopes Trixie can sense, “she’d be furious if we all gave up what we were doing for her.” 

Trixie nods.

“You know, I always wonder how different things would be if she gave half as much concern for herself as she did for others,” 

“Well, I suppose that could apply to all of us, couldn’t it?” replies Shelby, running a thumb across the back of Trixie’s hand, “for example, Nurse Franklin, the fact it’s approaching two’ o’clock, and you’re still awake, despite your full district roster tomorrow?” 

Trixie smiles weakly. The fatigue is undeniable, and Shelby’s acknowledgement seems only to worsen it.

“Let's get you to bed, eh?” says Shelby, rubbing Trixie’s back in a comforting gesture, “everything else is tomorrow’s problem.” 

_ It is almost impossible to believe you’re where you are. _

_ Almost. _

_ The cobbled streets give no illusion, the chimneys expelling thick grey smoke, the bustling market place- they all give no illusion. You’re really in Poplar, a Nonnatun midwife. _

_ There is one final thing you owe to yourself. _

_ Your first wages, handed to you by a smiling Sister Julienne (the woman who has been a mother to you as you find your feet), sit atop your dressing table still. You know exactly what they will go towards. _

_ Shrugging your coat onto your shoulders, the matching gloves slipped firmly onto your fingers, you set out on your day off, adamant of what you will return with. _

_ The aisles of Boots are almost forgotten to you now, these aisles at least. Rows and columns of rouge, of powder, of every cream and lipstick imaginable. Those colours hold no interest to you. You reach for the one colour you always have been and still are, in love with. A shimmering tube of the brightest ruby red, encased in a glossy black tube. _

_ No longer does it serve as armour, or as a mask for a tiny innocent Trixie to hide behind. It simply accentuates a bold and brave woman who was always there. A woman who finds her worth in the cry of a newborn baby first exposed to light, or in the smile and happy tears of a mother feeding her child for the first time. _

_ Never again will Beatrix Franklin let a man define her worth. _


	12. guilt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everything,” is the reply, “I’ve made an awful mess of everything.”

"Delia!" says Shelby, heading down the main stairs, "You made it!"  
The brunette offers a warm smile, hands balled in her pockets.  
"I managed to get tonight off, somehow," she says in a hearty tone, heading towards the door as Trixie emerges.  
"You two go on ahead, Lucille and I will catch you both up!" comes the light voice from the top of the stairs, as Trixie struggles with the Dansette, "Lucille, please hurry up!" 

The air is sharp, understandably so for September, and Delia and Shelby tighten their coats around their waists. Shelby produces a small white box, placing a cigarette between full lips and lighting it with experienced precision. She notes the raising of Delia's eyebrows, forming a smirk as she inhales.  
"Consider it stress relief," she says, moving to link arms with the smaller woman as they walk, "god knows what Trixie's gonna get us up to.'  
"It'll be nice," says Delia, a slight sadness in her tone as they fall into step, "all girls together,"

The quiet calm of the street is interrupted as hasty footsteps echo behind them, Trixie and Lucille joining them. With swift, yet gentle, motions, Trixie's arm is laced into Shelby's on the other side. The smaller blonde plucks the cigarette from Shelby's fingers, taking a drag.

"Cheeky sod," she says, watching the smoke rise from Trixie's lips, "besides, you owe me for this." 

"No, Shelby, you owe me," she says with a smirk, "I'm keeping you healthy," 

"I've made it twenty-six years without Keep Fit, Bea," Shelby laughs, taking the cigarette back from a frowning Trixie.

"Well let me make sure you make it another twenty-six, yes?" 

"I fail to see the point," replies Shelby, flicking the end of her cigarette into a gutter as they pass, "I grew up in the Yorkshire dales, if I needed to run off some energy I just went 'n lugged some hay bales about,"  
Delia laughs, at Shelby and at a horrified Trixie.

"Nothing wrong with farm labour disguised as daily exercise," she says, earning a laugh from the taller woman as Trixie unlinks her arm in mock disgust.

"What about you, Lucille?" she asks, in a last ditch attempt to garner a shred of support. Lucille shrugs, a twinkle in her eye.

"I used to run a lot," she says, "nothing formal, just by myself," 

"I think you're slightly outnumbered, Bea," says Shelby, sharing a look between the other two women, "besides, I'm really not on board with this whole attire," 

Trixie lets herself fall back into step, linking Shelby's arm again.

"You look fine, Shelbs," she says, focussing straight ahead. Shelby smiles slightly.  
"The tops of my thighs are a really funny shape, though," she says.

Trixie swallows a lump in her throat, the words familiar.  
"You sounded just like somebody then," she says, disguising sudden recurring pain with a flick of a smile. Delia senses the sudden change in emotion, rushing to change the subject. 

"I say we ought to get fish and chips after," she says, smiling gently. Trixie scoffs in mock disgust.

"That defeats the entire object, Delia!" 

"And extend the arms slowly, that's it!"  
Trixie stands at the front of the hall, smiling at the group of women stood in casual rows before her. Her personal trio stand at the front- with Shelby right in the center of their little line. 

Shelby would be lying to herself if she said her eyes hadn't wandered here and there, although she really couldn't help it. In fact she hadn't noticed herself doing it until Delia had given her a sly nudge and an all knowing smirk.

She couldn't avoid her heart quickening as she watched Trixie demonstrate to the rest of the class- solid black clinging to her perfectly toned body, broken only by the bright red cardigan she favoured to keep warm.

She 's almost certain Trixie's caught on, too- the comments about Shelby breaking a sweat seeming to have an underlying message, though that could simply be her sunny tone. 

Shelby drops her eyes, keeping them pointed only to the floor. She's certain that should she harness the power, there'd be a hole burnt into the scuffed wood flooring simply through her stare. Delia's jokes suddenly feel sinister, although Shelby knows they aren't. Or perhaps they are, given what they have done and what they both know. Lucille's disapproving glances no longer feel like they are aimed at skimpy leotards and tights, despite Shelby's knowledge of the woman Lu awaits letters from. 

Bile rises in her throat, from nowhere, guilt tightening her chest all of a sudden. She excuses herself, making a dash for the toilets.

Shelby sits on the closed lid, head held in her hands as she rests her elbows on her thighs. She shivers, not entirely due to the cold, stiffening as she hears the door open. 

"Shelby?" 

Trixie appears at the stall door as it creaks open, heart dropping as she sees Shelby's posture. 

"Is everything alright?" 

The blonde approaches with caution, kneeling in front of the woman sat within and taking one hand in her own. Shelby sniffs, letting her eyes meet Trixie's. 

"Not feeling too well, sweetie?" Her voice is soft and smooth and Shelby wants to scream; she doesn't deserve such compassion, she deserves harshness, brutality.

She simply shakes her head. Trixie holds a hand to her forehead, still cool from being out in the unheated hall, and Shelby melts into her touch. 

"You're a little warm," she says, gently, noting the quickening pace of Shelby's pulse in her hand, "just breathe, Shelby. It's alright," 

She's done it before she realises, but in one swift motion, Shelby leans forward, falling into Trixie's arms. She lets the blonde wrap her arms around her, holding tight, rubbing a hand up and down her back as her spine moves in rapid motion with her shaking breath. 

“It’s all a mess, Bea,” says Shelby after a moment.

“What is?” asks Trixie, still clinging tight to the woman in her arms.

“Everything,” is the reply, “I’ve made an awful mess of everything.” 

Trixie reflects as Shelby pulls herself away, noting angry purple at the neckline of the thin black cotton she’s clad in for Keep Fit. Trixie draws her bottom lip between her teeth, averting her gaze as Shelby pulls the top over her collarbone. 

"Delia?" Not quite a question. An all-knowing statement, perhaps. 

The other woman knows exactly what that tone means and it chills the blood in her veins. She folds in on herself, meaning to be as small as she can possibly be with her lanky frame.

"Please, Trixie," she says quietly, "I know. It was wrong of me," 

Shelby tears her hand away from Trixie's, out of some perpetual fear of self destruction harming those around her. Trixie swallows hard.

"It's not something I can blame you for," she says after a moment passes, "I should have been kinder to you. Perhaps you wouldn't have sought shallow validation," 

Shelby blinks away tears.

"I'm not entirely convinced it was shallow," is her response, "though it was wrong. And I'll be the first to take the fall for it." 

Trixie reaches once again for the hand that aches to be linked with hers. Laces their fingers together firmly, with a gentle squeeze.

"Promise me you won't let Patsy find out," says Trixie, tone adamant, "it'll destroy her," 

Shelby nods, wiping a stray tear. 

"I've been thinking it would be better for me to pack up entirely," she says softly, "Patsy won't be gone forever, and the guilt never leaves. But I can't accept sympathy for something I did entirely willingly, Trixie." 

"You're not going anywhere," Trixie says, meeting Shelby's eyes despite the other woman's reluctance, "I'm not losing anyone else. Not now. Not ever." 

Trixie's words hold more weight than she lets on as she smiles gently at Shelby. 

"It won't be a dreadful mess forever," Trixie says, standing up slowly, "I can promise you that, if nothing else." 

Shelby lets herself be consumed in another powder scented embrace, Trixie's heartbeat the only soundtrack in the cold stall. 

Newspaper and chips engulf the table as the four women sit around it. Delia's kitchen- warm in physicality, cold with repressed memories, for Shelby at least. 

"Try and eat, Shelby," Trixie says calmly, sliding half a cod fillet over on grease lined black and white. Shelby's stomach flips, as she swallows hard. Trixie's hand fumbles beneath the tablecloth, allowing herself to find Shelby's. The two lace together, a gentle squeeze offering warm reassurance. 

"I don't know about anyone else, but I'm exhausted," says Lucille, golden brown chips disappearing one by one. Delia smiles,

"Me too," is the uncharacteristically chirpy reply, "don't think Pats would thank you for it." 

Almost a week since she vanished, a mere few days since Shelby supposedly crossed her path, and the atmosphere is almost certainly shifting. No longer is mention of Patsy met with silence and awkward shuffles. Delia finds herself able to talk, in short sharp bursts, yet able nonetheless, make jokes. There aren't many on the table who don't understand the use of light humour to cope with the empty side of the once warm bed. 

"Patsy never has been one for exercise, you know," says Trixie, punctuated with a sip of lemon water, "acts so hard done by with a couple of lunges." 

There's a laugh shared around the table. 

"Are you feelin' alright, precious?" 

Lucille tilts her head slightly as her eyes focus on Shelby, still sat across the table with her hand resting lightly on Trixie's thigh.

She nods. Smiles weakly.

"Just a bit of a headache," 

The air is crisp and cold as the three women take their leave, leaving the warmth of Delia's apartment. 

Delia and Patsy's apartment.

In the cold darkness, Trixie's hand finds itself slotting into Shelby's. The gesture goes unnoticed, or perhaps it doesn't- though she doesn't say, by Lucille, easily explained innocently if it needs to be.

Although it's not innocent. There are thing unsaid, kept shrouded in the dark even in weak streetlamp light.

They fall into each other's step quickly, breath clouding and trailing into the sky into simple nothingness. 

Trixie doesn't mean for the walk to be silent. Everything she means to say seems so misplaced, simply wrong. Casual conversation seems out of place, uneasy for Shelby's swirling mind, but anything more would be inappropriate given the third woman falling into step alongside them. 

Shelby says a silent prayer as Nonnatus House comes into view, Trixie's fingers still laced within her own yet seeking only slight comfort from the gesture. She takes her hand away as they approach the front steps, stuffing both in her coat pockets.

The door swings open sluggishly, warmth hitting them almost immediately as they enter. 

Trixie stops dead in her tracks, heart in her throat, unsure of whether or not what she's seeing is real.

"Patsy?"

The figure turns. Smiles weakly, with an awkward tilt.

"I want answers, Patsy," says Trixie, adamant in her tone, "now." 

Patsy shrugs, rolling her fingers over each other as she looks down intently at the table.

"I don't suppose there's a great deal to say," replies Patsy, cooly. 

"There isn't?" 

"I was alright, Trixie," she says, blunt, "my father has a property in Chelsea," 

"And I was to figure that out by way of telepathy, was I?" 

Patsy bites the inside of her cheeks, cogs visibly turning. 

"You don't understand." 

Trixie scoffs, rolling deep blue eyes as a signature move out of frustration.

"No, Patsy, I don't," she says, cold, "I fail to understand why you simply left in the middle of the night, without a single word to anyone," 

"It's a complex matter, Trix," she says, pressing her lips together, "lots to consider," 

"Talk to me, Patsy," 

Trixie sits across from the redhead, her better nature telling her to avoid taking Patsy's hands in her own no matter how much she aches to.

"It was for Delia,"

"She's been worried sick about you," 

Patsy takes a sharp breath in.

"Better worried than-" 

She trails off, swallowing hard.

"You could have told us where you were going at least," Trixie says, suddenly soft.

"You would have come and found me," she says, still not lifting her head to meet Trixie's eyes, "besides, I didn't think you'd care all that much." 

Trixie moves, perhaps too quickly, to be besides Patsy.

"Of course we would, Patsy," 

Patsy shrugs.

"We thought something ghastly had happened to you," she says gently. 

She hesitates, waiting for the green light to take Patsy in her arms. A soft nod.

Trixie wraps her arms around a still cold Patsy, stroking long ginger waves, soft from their week of being left laquer-free. 

"I can't go back,"

"Why not?" asks Trixie, although she can gauge the answer that awaits.

"Delia," she takes a steadying breath, "what if she's tired of me? If she doesn't want me anymore?"

Trixie's heart jumps into her throat, hit suddenly by the realisation of what has truly occurred in Patsy's absence. 

"This is Delia we're talking about, Patsy. She loves you," 

As Patsy pulls away, Trixie plants a soft kiss to her cheek, platonic and gentle, filled with fleeting concern and relief. 

"Nurse Mount,"

The senior nun appears at the door, her hands clasped together as she addresses the pair.

"You are welcome to board with us for tonight," she says gently, smiling with kind eyes. 

"Please stay, Patsy," says Trixie, near on pleading.

Patsy nods. Smiles at Sister Julienne, as though nothing is amiss. 

Just for tonight, everything is fixed.


	13. pick up where you left off.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It would be multitudes easier, she thinks, if she could fix the connection between her heart and her head."

The clock announces midnight as Shelby pads downstairs for a glass of much-needed water. As she silently crosses to the kitchen, the lamp in the sitting room alerts her. Patsy sits, blankets huddled tight to her tall frame, a book clutched to her chest. The redhead turns to face Shelby as a creaky floorboard reveals her presence.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” she asks, voice husky and burdened by fatigue.

“Shouldn’t you?” 

“No chance of that,” 

Shelby crosses to the sitting room, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

“My ma always said reading by lamplight was the only way I’d sleep when I was a bairn,” 

“Stories brought me a lot of comfort when nothing else did,” replies Patsy, blue eyes illuminated by artificial light, “until Delia, of course,”

A deep sigh, heavy and tired. Shelby draws her lip between her teeth.

"I'm so far removed from all of this that I don't feel I really get a say, but I am here regardless,"

"I just didn't think anybody would miss me, you know?" Patsy’s admission is weary, but it holds the sort of tone that suggests it has been in her mind a while. Certainty.

"Of course we did," she says after a moment, "Delia was in bits with all the worry," 

"I suppose that makes me a terrible partner then?"

"The fear makes you human. It's what the fear causes you to do that defines you,"

"Was Delia really all that worried?" Patsy adjusts her posture, bringing herself to sit straighter on the sofa.

"I checked in on her a few times," 

A pause. A sharp intake of breath, "she wasn't herself at all. She needs you," Shelby can’t bring herself to meet Patsy’s eyes, although there are no complaints from the redhead. Patsy’s eyes are fixed on the hem of the blanket, barely blinking. 

"She could easily find somebody new," says Patsy, adamantly, "it wouldn't surprise me if she already started looking,"

At once, the blood rushes through Shelby’s head, audible and overwhelming. She swallows, hard.

“Patsy, no,” she leans forward, reaching for Patsy’s knee. She places a delicate hand atop it, “Delia’s not like that. She loves the bones of you, Patsy,” 

Patsy nods slightly.

“What if she doesn’t anymore? What if I’ve completely ruined it all?” 

“If the woman I saw all those times has fallen out of love, I can’t imagine how she’d look in love with you,” 

“You promise? You aren’t just saying that?” says Patsy. It’s vulnerable, but there’s an unsurprising sense of fight beneath it all, “I can handle it, Shelby. I just need to know,” 

“You’ll see for yourself when Phyllis takes you off home, darlin’,” Shelby gives Patsy’s knee a final squeeze before she pulls back, “I promise you that she loves you as much as the day she left,” 

Shelby places a steaming mug in front of Patsy, dropping the saucepan into the sink, sending bubbles floating upwards. 

"Phyllis'll be down in a moment," 

A nod. Patsy’s eyes burn into the grain of the kitchen table, unblinking. 

“Come on then, lass,” comes the voice from the bottom of the stairs. Phyllis appears, her cape draped over one arm as she takes her keys from where they live in the hall. Patsy’s head snaps up at the sudden sound as she forces a smile.

“Let’s get you home,” 

Home. Patsy swallows, rising from the chair in a weird sort of haste that makes it scuff at the floor. 

“Patsy,” 

Shelby catches the redhead before she leaves, taking the moment left by Phyllis as she warms the car. 

“Remember what I said, yeah? Look after yourself,” 

Expecting her to simply turn and leave (never one for the emotional toil, if necessary), it’s all the more surprising when Patsy reaches out a hand. She lays it at the side of Shelby’s arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. Shelby smiles, meeting empty blue eyes. Tired, surrounded by purple fatigue.

“Thank you,” mouths Patsy.

Shelby follows her only to the hall. She wonders if Trixie’s parting words came last night, or perhaps in the small hours. This question is answered as the blonde hurries down the stairs, at what looks like two at a time.

“Patience Mount, don’t you dare take one more step!”

Patsy turns. There is only a moment for her to prepare herself before Trixie is clinging on as though her life depends on it. Patsy, for once, lets herself cling back. Trixie’s scent is calming, in a different way to the way Delia’s is. Trixie whispers something inaudible into the crook of Patsy’s neck before allowing her to slip out of the main doors.

Trixie and Shelby stand motionless for a moment, arms folded as they look at the now-closed door.

"Do you think she'll be alright?"

Trixie nods.

“It’s Patsy,” she says softly “she always is,”

Another silent moment.

Behind them, the clock announces the arrival of nine a.m.

“Oh, dear, I’d better get a move on or I’ll be ever so late!” Shelby makes a move the to coat hooks, taking her burgundy trench from where it lives.

“For what?” asks Trixie, furrowing sculpted brows, “Clinic isn’t until twelve!”

Shelby smirks, tapping the side of her nose as she shrugs on her coat.

“Never mind that,” 

And she too is gone.

“Do you want me to walk you in, lass?” 

Phyllis’ maternal side peeks through rarely, but for Patsy, it seems to appear far more frequently. Patsy shakes her head slowly, looking down at her hands which rest in her lap, folding her fingers over one another. Phyllis nods in an understanding manner, pulling the keys from the exhaust. No use in burning petrol.

“Is it strange to say that I’m afraid, Phyllis?” 

“I don’t think it is,” she replies, softly, “a lot’s happened. But you have the power to put it all behind you,”

Patsy blinks, remaining silent.

“And you will. You always do, you and Nurse Busby,” 

“Thank you,” whispers Patsy, with a nod.

She waits another moment, inhaling deeply before she opens the car door.

Phyllis gives a gentle wave before she pulls out of the street.

Time to face the music.

At once, Patsy is hit with the flowery sweetness of Delia. She lets it overwhelm her. Her absence is noted- the scent stands alone, unmarred by cigarettes or the abundance of bleach. It is simply Delia- the sweet honeysuckle of the perfume Patsy bought her in Paris, the powdery floral scent of her favourite talc, the starch she uses to keep her uniform sharp and pristine. Patsy is nowhere to be seen in the melody. 

Patsy advances down the hall, Delia coming into view, standing at the sink drying a single mug. A creaky floorboard announces Patsy’s presence as Delia whips around. Wordlessly, she approaches, wrapping both arms around Patsy’s neck, stretching up to press herself as close to her as she can, as though she may leave again, running like a deer in headlights. Patsy holds Delia just as tight, pressing kisses to the top of her head. She feels Delia’s body begin to jump as the smaller woman lets go of a barrage of tears, sobbing into Patsy’s chest. Patsy is usually the first to let go of hugs, though today is an exception. She has Delia, her Delia, in her arms. She holds tighter.

Delia pulls back after a few still moments, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her work cardigan. 

“Delia-”

She’s cut off by a firm shake of Delia’s head.

“I had no idea if you were going to come back, Pats,” 

Patsy takes a deep breath.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she says, looking up at Patsy in desperation, “you promised you wouldn’t,”

“This was different, Deels,” Patsy reaches for Delia’s hand, instead stuffing them into the pockets of her coat as Delia retracts her own into her sleeves.

“Exactly. Which makes it _worse,_ ” the sudden intonation of Delia’s voice makes Patsy jump a little, “you left me, _alone_ , when Sister Julienne _told you_ there were people that knew about us!” 

Patsy opens her mouth, though nothing comes out.

“What if they’d come for us, Pats? Like they did to those men in Lisbon Buildings?” she takes a breath, her gaze suddenly dropping, “Although, they wouldn’t be coming for _us,_ would they Pats? Because you weren’t here,” 

Patsy pauses. Senses Delia’s imminent exit. She takes both of Delia’s hands in her own, looking her as close in the eye as she can bear.

“It’s me they’d be after, Deels,” she says, adamant, “and if I’d gotten any word of trouble I would’ve come back, you know that,”

“No-”

“I ran for us. But mostly for you,” a breathe, “this world is made for you, Deels. You thrive in it. The same is not true for myself and that is why I left. In some way, I was hoping you’d come to your bloody senses and realise that I am not the person you want,”

“That’s not even remotely true, Pats,” Delia says, tears threatening once again, “do you think we’d have come this far if it wasn’t you?” 

No response.

“It’s always been you, Patsy. Always.”

Delia takes her hands back from Patsy’s grasp.

Patsy swallows, hard.

“But has it always been me?”

“Three sets of instruments, bagged and ready for packing,” says Phyllis, prompting Trixie to make a dainty check on her extensive checklist.

“Ergometri-”

She is cut off by an insistent car horn outside. Rhythmic, yearning for attention.

“What on earth is that?” 

“I’ll see to it. Probably some youngster out on a joyride,” Phyllis leaves the clinical room, followed in close step by Trixie, ever prepared to see Mother Phyllis in action. They are greeted by the sight of a shiny new Morris Minor- deep green in colour. Beside it stands Shelby, the culprit responsible for the car horn. The hood of the car is lifted, the well-tuned engine on full display.

“What do we think?” says Shelby, with a grin. 

“I think you’ve alerted half of Poplar to your newest purchase,” says the senior nurse, standing on the steps with her arms folded. 

“I think it’s wonderful, Shelby,” says Trixie, smiling up at Shelby from across the car, “the cream interiors are just perfect for this shade of green,” 

“Never took you for a car girl, Bea,”

“I’m not!” says a horrified Trixie, “Simply from an artistic, fashionable perspective,” 

“The interior is the least of your worries with one of these,” states Phyllis.

“It’s simply a newer model of yours, Nurse Crane,” Cyril appears from behind the open hood, wringing his hands in an oil stained cloth. 

“Precisely my problem,” 

"Come on Phyllis," says Shelby, spinning her fresh keys round one slender finger, "not even for a test run?"

"Not a chance. Those newer models are an absolute death trap," replies Phyllis, arms folded in as defensive a stance as ever.

"I can assure you, Nurse Crane, this car is in fine fettle," Cyril chimes in as he slams the hood closed.

"No, thank you," is the reply, "I'll let Nurse Franklin have the privilege of the first passenger,"

“Already taken by our lovely mechanic here, I’m afraid,” smirks Shelby, with a wink.

“Second is also on the podium, don’t forget,” says Trixie, hand already on the polished handle.

“Nurse Franklin,” comes the stern statement, “may I remind you of our half-finished inventory?” 

Trixie rolls her eyes, earning a giggle from Shelby. 

“You needn’t laugh, Doctor Manning,” 

Shelby suppresses a giggle, biting down on her bottom lip ever so slightly.

“Seems taking our equipment to the clinic is a joint responsibility, now,” 

Patsy sits at the table, rapping her nails against the edge of her mug. Long gone cold, it’s the least of her worries now.

Delia.

She wishes a lot of things.

When she was very little, her mother read her and her sister fairy tales of genies in lamps, that granted the wildest of wishes to whoever stumbled upon them.

If only, if only.

There is no genie. Patsy must fix this herself.

It would be multitudes easier, she thinks, if she could fix the connection between her heart and her head. Her words, however eloquent and technically genius they may be, never quite translate the way she wants them. Too blunt, too vague, too wrong. 

Emotions. Weird little things. Harder to navigate than Poplar in the smog. The empty flat gives way to too many thoughts. Patsy stands, drops her mug in the sink. There’s one way she knows how to reach out, even if she lacks a little there too.

Delia arrives back after the clinic, shrugging her coat onto a hook in the hall. Sleep shows on her face, bags appearing even under meticulously applied concealer, wispy tendrils escaping out of her neat bun. The smell hits her immediately. Rich, comforting.

As she approaches the kitchen, she sees Patsy with her back turned, intently focussed on the stove. Her bright ginger hair is tossed up haphazardly, away from her face. As she flips the contents of her frying pan onto the plate, Delia feels her heart swell in her chest. Patsy turns sheepishly, wiping her hands down the front of her slacks. She gives a faint smile, suddenly nervous at Delia’s reception of her gesture.

“Eggy bread?” 

“French toast,” says Patsy, “but yes. I know it’s your favourite,”

Delia sighs, a deep sigh which makes her body sink. Patsy’s heart goes with it.

“You didn’t have to, cariad,”

“I did,” Patsy replies, “I’ve been utterly awful,”

Delia swallows the lump in her throat.

“Pats-”

“No. My turn.” 

She pauses.

“Delia, I’m sorry,” she holds her hands in front of her, fidgeting, “you should be able to trust me the way I trust you,”

Suddenly, it’s impossible for Delia to hold back the tears. 

Patsy takes her in her arms.

Long day.

“Shelby, you’re really not helping me fall in love with cycling around Poplar at four a.m,” says Trixie, as she checks her lipstick in the passenger-side mirror.

“Well, stop then?” replies Shelby, potentially pressing a little hard on the gas in sheer smitten distraction, “I could teach you if you’d like?”

“I’d much rather take advantage of this,” she says with a smirk.

“Just wait until I get Sister Julienne to forward my petrol reimbursements,” 

They both laugh lightly.

Then silence.

It seems an age under the darkening sky before Shelby pulls up. It’s quiet, dark, secluded. It’s perfect. The world seems to move in slow motion as they perch on the bonnet, underneath the faint stars and the October moon. Trixie sighs, her body shivering. Wordlessly, Shelby drapes her coat around Trixie’s pale shoulders, watching the blonde clutch the fabric, pulling it closer.

“Trixie?”

“Yes, Shelby?” Trixie’s eyes are fixed on the stars, although Shelby imagines she’s not really interested at all in what's up there.

“Do you believe in fate?”

Trixie waits for a little. Then she nods.

“I do. I did. Until I lost… Barbara,”

Her gaze drops suddenly, Shelby nodding as she bites at her bottom lip. 

“Then you moved in,”

Shelby’s heart drops to the floor. She turns to face Trixie properly, finding her eyes meet deep blue.

“Bea-”

“I never thought- not me,”

“I had that exact same thought,” Shelby’s hand finds the one Trixie is using to prop herself up, resting atop it, grasping her fingers from the back.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” 

Shelby nods slowly.

There is a moment's silence, but that is all.

Neither of them holds back from leaning in this time around.


	14. aftermath.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m just not allowed to be happy with you, am I?”

Trixie inhales, breath hitching in her throat.

“Bea-” Shelby speaks finally, verging on a whisper, “I’m- I’m sorry,”

Trixie shakes her head, squeezing Shelby’s hand as it rests beneath her own.

“Is this us now?” 

“I can’t,” Trixie’s breath hitches again, chest tight, “I can’t answer that, Shelby,”

“Whyever not?” 

“It’s not that easy, is it?” she replies, wrapping Shelby’s coat around her shivering shoulders once more, “For us?”

Shelby looks down, eyes meeting the dark green of the bonnet, which looks n inky black under the now dark sky.

“No,” 

“So we can’t do it, can we?”

“We can make it work,” Shelby forces herself to look Trixie in the eye, taking a soft manicured hand in each of her own, “take every moment we can, even if we have to hide it,”

“Shelby-”

“If it doesn’t work, then fine,” she pauses for a second, “we let go, you find someone who makes you happy,”

“I already have, Shelby,” 

Trixie lets a single tear fall down her pale, powdered cheek, biting her rouge-stained bottom lip as she finds the words that work.

“I’m just not allowed to be happy with you, am I?”

The sound of Shelby’s breathing is all Trixie can hear as she looks up at the ceiling. It’s comforting, the rhythmic nature of it, made even better at the sight accompanying it. Trixie moves herself to her side, letting herself take in the girl in the next bed.

Soft blonde fans across the pillow, falling over her face slightly, feathering with each breath. There’s a slight furrow in her brow and Trixie takes a moment to ponder its cause. She sighs deeply, flipping back onto her back

She considers the multitude of women that have taken that bed.

There was Cynthia. The awakening. Gentle, sweet, exactly the opposite of loud and opinionated Trixie. Trixie thinks about how tiny she looked, even in the small single bed. The covers swallowed her, leaving plenty of room for Trixie to slip underneath when she sought comfort. She remembers the quiet whispers, the way she’d trudge downstairs, rain or shine, for a cigarette, knowing Cynthia’s sensitivities. She thinks back to Cynthia’s struggles, the way the questioning ate her up inside, made her ill with worry. It leads her to run to the only thing she knew which stayed consistent. That thing was not Trixie.

Then Jenny came. Trixie’s match. Bringing her silver spoon with her, Trixie soon melted it down and made her leave it behind. Jenny was strong and opinionated, just as Trixie was, or is, yet desirable. She handled it, kept it controlled until she needed to. Trixie, never a master of the art, yet that’s what makes her so desirable. The revolving door of boys makes it harder to admit, but there’s no denying that Trixie feels a weird crushing in her chest as she watches Jenny roll her hair for the night, or brush on a layer of modest pearl blush. She can’t have her, she knows this, so fiercely that it very nearly kills her. So she seeks a pacifier, something to keep her occupied. And it works.

The redhead is different. She’s a breath of fresh air, not stuffy and conservative. The first encounter, seeing her in that form-fitting uniform, cheeks rosy from the exertion of cleaning, the familiar crushing in her chest returns. She can’t explain why she feels so sick at the knowledge of upsetting Patsy that night, the way the redheads trust had suddenly melted away as she recalled her childhood. The day she disappeared had hit Trixie for reasons she couldn’t describe- reasons that sent her using up all her change on bus tickets around the farthest stretches of London whenever she got the chance. Patsy is safe. Trixie spills her heart out one night when neither can sleep- not that Patsy ever did. She sat at the window until the darkest hours, burning cigarette after cigarette, making a dancing acquaintance with the moon. Then she too was gone. Close, yet gone. Delia is her safe space. 

Then, there’s Shelby. The tingling of pure electricity on Trixie’s lips, the pounding in her head as she lies in the still, silent dark. Well, it all speaks for itself, in the strangest sort of way. 

“Good morning!” Shelby chirps as she bounds into the kitchen, taking a slice of toast offered to her by Lucille.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” says the young midwife, smiling at Shelby as the doctor tosses her keys into the air, catching them in the same hand.

“Of course! Another wonderful day of insulin and milk tokens,” the sarcasm is rich as she chews on buttered toast.

“Is Nurse Franklin not up yet?”

Shelby shakes her head.

“It’s her day off,” 

“Ah, of course,”

“I dread to think what she’s got planned, mind,” 

Lucille smiles.

The moment is interrupted by the arrival of the postman.

Lucille heads to the door, greeting him in clockwork fashion. Shelby watches as she sifts through letters.

“Anything you were hoping for?”

Lucille bites at her lip before shaking her head.

“No,” a sigh as she hands a letter to Shelby, “although I’m not really expecting it anymore. There’s one for you, though,”

The envelope is bare, addressed to her directly with a simple stamp attached. The handwriting is not one she recognises- the scrawl is messy, with no return address. 

She opens it with one dull fingernail, unfolding its contents.

Her chest tightens around a pounding heart.

“Alright, precious?”

Shelby nods, laboured.

“Just a bill,” she inhales, “something for the car,”

Lucille nods, leaving the post on the table as she leaves.

“Trixie,”

Shelby enters in a flurry, letting the panic be painted on her face. Trixie sits at the mirror, a steady and experienced hand applying eyeliner as usual.

“Whatever’s the matter?” Trixie’s face drops as she sees Shelby, letter in hand, dropping her makeup and beckoning the woman to sit at the edge of the bed.

“It’s my father,” 

Trixie’s heart drops as she reaches to take Shelby’s hand.

“Is he?” 

She can’t bear to say it.

Shelby shakes her head.

“He’s in Poplar.” 

“Oh my goodness,”

“My thoughts exactly,” Shelby draws her bottom lip between her teeth, “I have no idea why he’s here, or how he knows I’m here,”

“What has he said?” Trixie asks, with a squeeze of Shelby’s hand.

“He’ll write again soon,” she lets out a shaky breath, “he wants to meet me,” 

“Is that so bad?” She regrets it as she says it, but Shelby’s face remains soft.

“Not necessarily. I’m just- I’m scared, Bea,” 

Trixie nods. 

“I don’t- I barely remember him,” Shelby’s voice is shaking, threatening to crack with the panic, “I don’t know what I’d say,”

She breaks.

Trixie is wordless as she stands, placing herself at the edge of the bed and taking Shelby in her arms. She holds tight, letting the other woman cry into her shoulder, aiming to offer whatever comfort she can.

“I didn’t know if you’d be in,” says Trixie as she watches Patsy place two mugs on the kitchen side.

“It’s not as if I have anywhere else to be,” she says, spooning sugar into both mugs, “you know, with my entire career being in shards,”

Patsy pauses, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry- I just,”

“I know,” Trixie bites her bottom lip, “I understand,”

“I’m glad to say that you very much don’t” Patsy takes care in pouring hot water from the steaming kettle, “because it’s hell on earth, Trixie,” 

Trixie simply nods.

“I’m not a criminal, and yet I’m made to feel as though I am,” 

The melodic tapping of a teaspoon against ceramic.

“For simply loving a woman,” 

She places a steaming mug in front of a still wordless Trixie.

“It would kill me to know you understand that,”

A beat.

“What if I did?”

Patsy pauses.

“What if I understood it entirely? What if I’d understood it multiple times over, in an unrequited manner? And what if I was understanding it, even now?” 

“You’re saying-?”

“Yes, Pats,” Trixie taps her nails against the ceramic, a nervous habit, “I am saying. I’m saying I’ve fallen for somebody I really shouldn’t have done,”

“There’s no helping that though, is there?” Patsy replies, with a lopsided smile.

“No. Unfortunately not,” 

“So who-”

“Shelby.”

“Oh,” Patsy says, swallowing a lump in her throat, “the doctor?”

“Yes,”

“Is it unrequited, like you said?” 

Trixie shakes her head firmly.

“Which makes the situation a whole lot more difficult,” 

Patsy offers a reassuring nod.

“Just promise me, Trixie,” Patsy inhales sharply, “promise me you’ll be careful,”

“I’m no stranger to heartbreak, Patsy,” with a weak smile.

“You’re well aware that’s not what I meant,”

And she is. Painfully aware. But admitting that is a terrifying prospect. 


	15. the past.

“Two weeks to the day, and not a word,”

“Come to bed, sweetie,”

“What if something’s happened?”

“Shelby.”

“I mean, I can’t imagine he’s in a good way after what they put him through, and Poplar’s not exactly inviting at the best of times. What if-”

Before she knows it, before she can continue her spiral, there are soft, warm hands cupping her tear-tracked cheeks. Trixie lifts her eyes to meet Shelby’s, observing the apparent lack of sleep they show. She gently plucks the cigarette, which is mostly untapped ash, from Shelby’s lips, stubbing it into the full ashtray which Trixie swears she emptied that very morning. There is no protest.

“Please, Shelby,” 

Shelby lets herself melt into Trixie’s touch, finding herself held tight against the smaller woman's chest. She shivers a little, expelling a shaking breath.

“I’m just worried,” 

“I know, sweetie, I know,”

“I can’t ignore him, Bea,” Hands wander up and down her back as she clings to Trixie, “not now I’m- like him.”

“Is that what all of this is about?” Trixie’s voice is a hushed whisper as she rests her chin at the top of Shelby’s head. A small nod.

“Well, I mean, he’s still my father,” 

“Blood doesn’t mean as much as everyone says it does,”

“I know that. But I can’t ignore him, even so,”

Trixie squeezes her arms tighter around Shelby as they share a moment of silence. 

The day drags on, fatigue heavy in Shelby’s head. She’s thankful for a day in the clinic- mostly a day of paperwork, while Delia and Trixie hold the fort. The sky is darkening, the cold early November drawing in faster each minute. Shelby flicks through papers in dusty lamplight- numerable cups of coffee proving futile to ease the exhaustion. Fighting the urge to fall asleep right at the desk, Shelby stands, heading out to stretch her legs. She knows there’s a bakery a short walk from the surgery- she remembers the logo, a perfect little ships wheel, from all the times she’s driven past. A quaint little place, perfect to grab a coffee and a distraction.

She’s stopped in her tracks by a man who appears to have just entered through the main doors. He stands tall, yet awkwardly, a cane grasped firmly in his right hand. His face is pained, momentary spasms hitting his entire body. 

“Good evening, sir,” Shelby says, with a smile, sudden, confusing unease passing over her, “Is everything alright?”

“I need to see a doctor, if that’s possible,” 

Northern. His voice is gruff, with a tone like sandpaper.

“Of course,” Shelby beckons the stranger over, “right this way,”

She helps the man into the exam room, observing as he takes a seat with great effort. He reaches up, taking his hat from his head, revealing several jagged scars across it, beneath his thinning grey hair.

“Whatever’s the problem today?”

The man takes a moment before he speaks.

“See, I took a bit of a tumble as I left this morning,” he says, gesturing towards his right leg, “I’m not sure if I’ve done any damage, but it’s certainly giving me a great deal of grief,” 

“Mind if I take a look?” 

The man shakes his head as Shelby begins to look at the offending knee.

“Hopefully my hands are nice and warm, we’ve got the heating going now it’s November,”

“No problem at all,” he says, friendly, “say, it’s a lovely little surgery you’ve got here,”

Shelby smiles, although she can’t be seen as she continues her examination of the man’s injury. A sense of familiarity hits her with every word the man says, although it can’t be placed.

“We do try, although funding’s a little thin this time of year,”

Shelby stands, gently pulling the fabric back to where it belongs.

“You’ve certainly bruised it a great deal, although I think that’s all,”

“Got lucky this time, have I?” he says, warmly.

“You have indeed,” she says, taking a seat at her desk, “it’s an impressive colour, and if it’s giving you grief we can give you something for it,”

An understanding nod.

“I must ask, though, for note's sake, whether your cane has anything to do with an existing injury?”

He shakes his head and a pang of guilt strikes Shelby.

“I’ve used it for some years now,” he says, shrugging a little, “time isn’t kind, I must tell you,”

“Right, sorry, I just have to eliminate possible pre-existing conditions, past injuries, that type,”

“No problem at all, doll,”

Doll. 

Shelby feels her stomach flip as she pulls out her prescription forms. 

“I’ll prescribe you a mild painkiller and plenty of rest,”

“That’s cross-country running out of the question, then?” the man jokes. Shelby returns a smile, outside at least.

“I’m afraid so,” she smiles, filling the form, “may I take a surname for this?”

“Manning,”

Shelby’s heart sinks. She writes it down, masking whatever adrenaline is hitting her.

“And a- a forename?”

“Peter,”

Shelby swallows hard, feeling her heart pounding adamantly against her ribs.

“Shelby.”

Shelby mutters a ‘Jesus Christ’ underneath her breath, squeezing her eyes shut tight. She regains her senses, sliding the prescription form across the desk.

“The form is signed by a ‘Doctor Manning’, so if they question it you can get them to telephone me,”

“You know, right?” 

“Of course,” she brings her voice to a hushed whisper, “not here,”

“Understandable,” Peter replies, “but where?”

“Telephone this number tomorrow evening,” she says, scribbling on a scrap of paper torn from the nearest notebook, “no sooner. No later,” 

“Thank you,” 

The man places his hat back on his head, tips it, and stands. 

Then, he is gone. 

Shelby pulls up outside Nonnatus, pulling the keys from the exhaust and dropping them into her lap. She rests her head atop her hands on the steering wheel, fear suddenly washing over her in waves. Everything hits her at once. That man standing, awkward and pained, strides limping and laboured, was not who she remembered. The angry zipper lines that painted his head, the painful sudden movements he seemed to have no control over.

_That_ is Peter Manning.

Her head remains bowed, knuckles pressed tight to her forehead, fearing she’ll keel over if she tries to stand yet. 

That could be her. It could be Patsy. Delia. Trixie. Naivety is not one of her many traits- she is well aware of what causes his burdens. The illegality of it all is something she rarely considers, for fear of an everlasting spiral. It’s easy, she realises, when there’s no comparison to be made, no impacts to be seen. But now she has. 

She eventually compels herself out of the car, entering Nonnatus as quietly as possible. 

“Doctor Manning!” says Sister Frances as Shelby appears. The young nun’s face suddenly drops as the light hits Shelby properly,

“Is everything alright? You look ever so pale,” 

Shelby nods hastily, eyes shut tight. She drops her keys into the dish where they join Phyllis’. Involuntarily, she feels her back hit the door as she puts all her effort into staying stood. Her chest is tight, constricting with every breath she takes. The spinning makes it hard to register Sister Frances’ exit, the young nun heading down the hall with quick footsteps. 

If she can just make it upstairs, crawl under the cool sheets of her own bed, she can play it off as a headache. Nobody will bother her then. Her plan fails halfway up the staircase, fatigue suddenly taking over as she comes to sit on the stairs, body resting against the bannister as her head continues to spin. 

“Oh, Shelby,”

Trixie approaches with caution, taking a seat beside Shelby. 

“What’s happened, sweetie?”

Trixie diverts her gaze to Sister Frances for only a moment, the nun taking her cue to leave.

“He came to the surgery, Bea,” Shelby speaks quietly, with little energy, “I saw him, and- he’s not well, at all,”

Trixie sighs, her heart sinking.

“I was about to leave and he was just-  _ there _ ”

“Are you going to meet him again?” 

“I told him to telephone tomorrow evening,” she says, quiet, “but I shouldn’t have done,”

“Why not? I thought you wanted to meet him? To talk?”

“I don’t- it’s all a mess, really,” 

“You don’t want to spend the rest of forever regretting it if you don’t,”

Shelby shrugs.

“Regret is a ghastly thing, Shelby,” Trixie sighs, “you never know when, or if, you’ll get that chance again,”

A sigh, from Trixie this time.

“So you take that chance, because if you don’t you’ll never forgive yourself,”

Trixie reaches down, taking Shelby’s trembling hand in her own. She runs her thumb across Shelby’s knuckles.

“Sleep on it,” Trixie says softly, “but don’t let ridiculous things get in your head and stop you,”

“It’s been twenty years, Bea,” Shelby says after a moment, “I was a bairn the last time I saw him,”

“And now you’re not. You’re an adult and you can say what’s been troubling you, for all that time,” 

“But-”

“Believe me, Shelby. The amount I wish I could’ve said to my own father before he passed,”

Shelby nods slowly. 

“Sleep on it,”

Shelby balls her fists in her pockets, breath fogging as she walks to where she agreed to meet Peter. Her heart pounds angrily against her chest, uncertainty flooding through her veins, although Trixie’s words remain ringing in her head.

The agreed picnic table comes into view, a figure sat at it, rubbing his arms from the bitter cold. His cane rests against the damp wood and Shelby takes a deep, shuddering breath as she approaches.

“Peter,”

The man turns.

“You came,”

Shelby takes a seat opposite him.

“Of course I did,” 

The atmosphere is awkward, filled with overwhelming silence.

“I don’t hate you,” says Shelby, “I understand why,”

“Do you?”

“Not fully,” she replies, “I thought you loved us,”

“I did. I loved you all more than life itself,”

Shelby wrinkles her nose.

“But you left. Left all of us, thinking a bit of money made up for any of the pain it caused,”

“I had to leave. For you. For all of you,”

“Do you have  _ any  _ idea what it’s like? To suddenly not have a father anymore?”

“It wasn’t my fault, Shelby,”

“You’re the one that left us.” She inhales sharply, “We had to do it all by ourselves, 

not that we were any good at it,”

There’s silence once again.

“Ma was never the same, though at least she tried, rather than running.”

“That’s not fair-”

“Our Jess tried covering the bills. Do you know how?” She bites at her bottom lip, resisting tears. “Of course you don’t. She sold herself, Pa,” 

Peter expels a shuddering breath.

“With her and ma no use, it was left to me to make sure the twins made it to school every day, made sure they were washed and fed,”

Silence. Again.

“Our Stevie was so broken from losing his hero,” Shelby expels a huff, sort of a laugh, “you hear that? His hero,”

“He was my little boy, I missed him as much as I missed you all,”

“Ended up going out, stealing and fighting every day, because he had nobody to teach him how to be a man,”

Finally, Peter stops holding back. 

"And what kind of man was I to teach him?"

"I don't know," Shelby narrows her eyes, "I never got to know you,"

Sharp. Tinged with all the sorry bitterness of a stolen childhood.

"I never asked to be the way I am!" is the broken reply from Peter.

"And you think I did?"

A pause. Shelby takes a deep breath, lungs burning. 

"I never asked to be so bloody angry all the time. I never asked to be the only little girl alone at the father-daughter dances. And by God, I most certainly never asked to be a parent to all my siblings, because you broke Ma, and sent our Jess out, selling herself, to put food on the table!"

"Shelb-"

“I did it, all by myself. The only woman in my graduating class, the year I became a doctor, and I had nobody there cheering me on because you ripped us all apart, and Jess was in some hovel, Ma was too busy nursing a hangover to come, or even bring our little Rosie and Stevie was doing ten to life for aggravated assault, because  _ you _ couldn’t man up and be a _bloody_ father figure.” 

“Do you think for one second that I wanted to leave the only life I knew?”

Shelby massages her temples, leaning her forehead on her hands.

“They came for me, Shelby. In the middle of the night, they chased me and Vince out of our home, and they burnt it to the ground,”

“I know,” she says, tired, “it was in the papers.”

“We ran to the police, but they already knew about us. They took us in and-”

He pauses.

“Either way, people knew. If they’d have come for me and I was with you, do you think they would have let go? You’d have been branded, Shelby, as kids of a queer. They’d have attacked you, too,” 

Shelby can’t find the words. They all seem wrong.

“Do you know what they did to me?” He removes his hat, placing it on the table, “Two steel rods in the head, the cure, apparently. Along with a good amount of pills and potions, the occasional surgery,”

Shelby bites her lip, tears forming.

“None of it worked, Shelby. I’m the same, just- ill,” He replaces his hat, covering the jagged canvas of scars, “I wasn’t ill before.”

“I know you weren’t,” she says, quietly, “I don’t hate you for what you are,”

“Just for what I did,” 

She shakes her head.

“I don’t hate you, I just- I hate the circumstances. I hate the way it all fell to pieces,”

“So do I, doll,” he reaches for her hand on the table, surprised when she doesn’t shrug away his touch, “I don’t have long before everything catches up to me- I want to make it up,”

Shelby nods, grasping his hand properly.

“I want to be there, Shelby,” his eyes are warm, shining with tears, “I want to watch your career grow, I want to be there when you marry, have little grandbabies for me,” 

Shelby takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“No chance of that,”

“How come, doll?”

“I can’t get married, Pa. They- that’s not legal for me, yet,”

Peter’s heart sinks as the realisation hits like a ton of bricks.

“Doll,” he sighs, “no, no.”

All he can muster is a frantic shaking of the head. Shelby’s tears finally spill.

“Yes. I know the risks, but I can’t- I can’t live a lie,”

“It’s dangerous, you’ve seen-”

“I know, Pa. I do. But I also saw what lying for two decades did to you. I can’t do it,”

Shelby slips her hand from Peter’s grasp, gently, the anger from earlier subsided. She turns.

“Be careful, Shelby,” Peter’s voice is desperate, “even if you don’t want me back in, I want you to be well,”

As she walks, Shelby presses a hand to her mouth, muffling her sobs as she leaves Peter Manning behind. 

Leaves her father behind.

  
  



	16. consolidation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why was he angry, Bea? What have I done?”

Substantial time has passed as Shelby arrives back at Nonnatus. The nuns are in Compline, reciting their hymns, the song reverberating throughout the halls. Shelby slips through the doors, unwittingly holding her breath as she heads for the stairs, as undetected as possible.

_ Wilt thou forgive that sin, where I begun, _

“Trixie?” Shelby’s breaths are shuddering as she closes the door behind her, the blonde in the first bed soundly asleep.

_ Which is my sin, though it were done before? _

“Trixie,” her voice is a panicked whisper as she presses her back to the door, clicking her knuckles in nervous habit as she trembles, “Bea, please,” 

_ Wilt thou forgive those sins through which I run, _

Trixie furrows her brow, propping herself up on one elbow. She blinks, adjusting to the dimly lit room, eyes darting to Shelby, still standing against the door.

_ And do run still, though still I do deplore? _

“Shelby?” 

Shelby shakes her head frantically, eyes shut painfully tight, her chest rising and falling in rapid motion. The ivory white skin at the back of her hand reddens as she digs neatly groomed nails in, fear growing in her chest and in her head.

“Shelby? Come on, sweetie, it’s okay,” 

_ When thou hast done, thou hast not done, for I have more. _

Shelby takes uneasy steps forward, coming to kneel at the side of Trixie’s bed. She falls into the blondes lap, feeling slender fingers stroke through her own blonde waves, which have fallen victim to bitter November gales. 

“You’re safe, sweetie,”

_ I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun, _

Trixie lets Shelby simply seek comfort in her arms, feeling the woman shiver violently in her arms. She continues to let out great wracking sobs, muffled by the eiderdown, grasping for Trixies hand in the dark. 

_ My last thread, I shall perish on the shore. _

“I can’t- Bea,” she speaks between muffled sobs, Trixie’s fingers still working their way through her hair, “He’s not well- I was awful to him- Bea,” 

Trixie plants gentle kisses to the top of Shelby’s head as she begins to tremble a little less with Trixie’s touch. 

_ Swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son,  _

“You did what you needed, sweetie,” Trixie whispers, letting her chin come to rest atop Shelby’s head, holding her tighter, closer, “nobody will blame you for that,”

_ Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore. _

"I told him- about me, the way I am," her voice is desperate, breaking as she speaks, "he got- he seemed angry, Bea," 

“I’m sure-”

“Why was he angry, Bea? What have I done?”

Shelby’s voice is quiet now, scared, as she melts into Trixie’s touch.

_ And having done that, thou hast done, _

“Things will all work out as they should, I promise you,” another gentle kiss.

_ I fear no more. _

Shelby blinks, allowing herself a few moments to adjust to the sunlight streaming through the slit of the curtains. She shifts onto her back, feeling Trixie pressed against her body, an arm lazily draped over her waist. The feeling of her starched shirt collar draws the realisation she's still dressed, her neat burgundy trench lying discarded at the foot of the bed.

"Morning," Trixie's voice is a whisper as she stirs awake, nestling closer to the warmth of the woman beside her. She adjusts her arm at Shelby's waist, holding her a little tighter as they bask in the comfort of each others warmth.

"Did you sleep alright?" 

Trixie mumbles softly into Shelby's hair as she nestles her head into the crook of Shelby's neck. Shelby lets her hand reach for Trixie's, linking their fingers together gently, relishing in the way they slot together perfectly.

As they lie in the silent tranquility, it is suddenly shattered by a polite, yet firm knock on the door. At once, Shelby is bolt upright, earning a slight indignant groan from Trixie. Shelby stands, opening the door to see Phyllis standing with a warm smile painted on her face.

"Oh, I do hope I haven't interrupted anything," she says, observing the dent left in the sheets in a gap left that is large enough for another person, "I was just checking in on you two. There's tea downstairs, and Nurse Busby has just dropped off some fresh croissants from that new  _ Nomads  _ place," 

Shelby smiles, as Phyllis makes her second observation- the canvas of red and purple adorning Shelby's eyes, exhaustion and sorrow mixing together in a way she can't disguise.

"Although hot tea can't remedy everything," Phyllis says, in her classic style that suggests so much more than what she's actually saying. She turns on her heel, heading off down the corridor as Shelby clicks the door closed.

Trixie sighs, still clouded by sleep. 

"Come on, you," says Shelby, pulling a comfy plaid jacket around her shoulders, before leaning over Trixie. She lands a gentle kiss on her forehead, watching as a smile spreads uncontrollably over her face.

"You're off today, arent you?" mumbles Trixie as she sits up, rubbing her eyes.

"Yes, I am, why?" replies Shelby as she pulls a brush through her still windswept hair.

"No reason," 

Shelby pauses, biting her bottom lip ever so slightly.

"I want to meet him again,"

"You do?"

"I want to apologise," she says, nodding, "I want to let him in, like he said,"

"Are you sure?"

"It's like you said, Bea," Shelby says, turning to face the woman in the bed, "I'll regret it if not," 

"Of course, although apologising doesn't mean you have to let him in,"

"But I want to," she replies, adamant.

"I know. I'm not saying you don't. It was simply precautionary, should you feel any pressure,"

Shelby taps the back of the hairbrush against her palm absentmindedly.

"I don't, Bea. I promise. I want a father,"

"I'd say there are many great women who became that way without one, our Phyllis, Patsy as well. You too, Shelby" 

"I'd like to think I've made it far enough without needing one," she says, twirling the brush between idle fingers, "it's simply something I want at this stage," 

"I understand," Trixie says, nodding gently, "I'll be here," 

Shelby sits in  _ Nomads,  _ nails tapping at the steaming ceramic as she waits. Tracing Peter Manning- a chore in it's own right. Personal records posed the risk of dragging skeletons from the closet, though a scan of the phonebook proves a success.

" _ Good afternoon, this is Peter Manning speaking, who is this?" _

_ "Umm… It's- Pa, it's me. Shelby,"  _

She'd invited him for coffee, her treat from her November paycheck as the month approached its close, and a bit of closure. An offer to be a father, for her to be a daughter,

Now she waits.

The little bell above the door trills once again and Shelby lifts her head, sighting the arrival of Peter. He limps in, stance heavy on his cane as he comes to sit down. As he shrugs his coat off, Shelby signals for the coffee paid for well in advance.

"Shelby," he speaks slowly, tinged with sadness,

"Pa," she replies, looking down into her cup, "thank you. For coming,"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world,' 

Shelby sighs.

"I wanted to apologise, for yesterday,"

"It's-"

"You're going to tell me alright, but it isn't. It's not your fault," 

Peter dumps two sugar packets into his mug before swirling the teaspoon through it.

"You were angry, love. That's justified,"

"I blamed you for something that couldn't have been helped,"

Peter nods, smiling gently. Shelby's hand drifts, resting atop his.

"I want you here," she continues, "I want you to be able to share everything I do, for as long as we've got,"

"I fear that may not be very long, Shelby,"

"I know. Which is why I'm so certain I want you to be my Pa," 

Peter smiles, tears forming in crystal eyes he clearly gave to Shelby.

"What have I missed? What do you do now?"

"Well, I was a midwife, then I decided to become a GP, though my speciality is still in midwifery," she speaks with sudden ease, wrapping her hands xasually arounx her mug, taking steady sips every so often.

"Wow, fancy that! My little Shelby, a doctor!" he smiles and at once there us warmness flooding over Shelby. He speaks with all the pride of an enthused father, "Where are you based, then? One of these posh new builds, I imagine," 

"Actually, no," she says, still with a gentle smile, "it's a convent, but the nurses board there and operate from there. It's a big old house, called Nonnatus House. There's only two of us that don't live there, but they're in a flat together now anyway,"

"It sounds like you've made a wonderful life for yourself, love," he smiles, pausing, "is there anyone on the cards to share it with?"

Shelby raises her eyebrows as Peter realises, his clouded memory clearing for a brief moment though she lets a knowing glimmer of a smile shine through.

"Ah, of course," he says, tone as clear and calm as before, "I'd love to get the pleasure of meeting him one day," 


	17. underneath the tree.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nothing but mischief, aren’t you?” says Trixie with a smile that can only be pinned as flirty.

"Bea!"

Shelby looks across at Trixie from her own pillow, a mischievous smirk on her face. 

"Bea!" 

"What?" comes the sleep soaked reply from the other bed.

"It's Christmas!" 

A petulant groan.

"Shelby, are you six?" 

A little laugh.

"No, but I'm excited," she replies, looking up at the ceiling, "this is the first time I've had people to exchange presents with since I left Yorkshire," 

Trixie feels her heart jump into her throat, though she smiles at this. 

"I suppose we'd best get up, then,"

Trixie's eyes dart to the closet- Shelby's side slowly filling over the weeks with different parcels in coloured paper. She sighs, reaching a hand across the gap in the beds. It is met by Shelby's as they fit together perfectly.

"Merry Christmas, Bea,"

"Merry Christmas, Shelby," 

_ "Mama?"  _

_ Your mother turns, tired, though she musters a smile as she sees you. _

_ "Is Father Christmas still coming here?" you ask, filled with soft innocence, rocking on your heels slightly, "Because Jenny in my class said her mama said he won't, because of Papa," _

_ Your mother sighs, burdened with things you don't quite understand. She rubs her forehead. _

_ "He will, Shel," she says, her eyes as kind as they can be as she beckons you forward, scooping you into her lap, "don't you worry, Princess,"  _

"It smells amazing down here already!" says Shelby, as she and Trixie arrive downstairs. Sister Frances appears shyly from the kitchen, apron tied neatly around her crisp habit.

"Guilty as charged," she says in her classically sweet tone, "thought I'd get a head start," 

Trixie heads over to the kettle, filling it and setting it atop the lit stove.

"I wonder if there are any Christmas babies for us this year?" she asks as she leans against the counter, checking her nails as she waits.

"More than likely," replies Sister Frances, "never a dull moment, is there?" 

"Goodness, imagine giving birth to a Capricorn," says Trixie with a little giggle.

"I was a summer baby," replies Shelby, "if you consider April summer. Or is it more spring?" 

"An Aries? Goodness, it gets worse," says Trixie, fetching mugs down from the cupboard.

"April the first. I reckon my dad thought that me being another girl was a practical joke," Shelby lets out a little giggle, watching Trixie make the morning tea, "besides, Trixie, what's yours, if Aries is such a crime?"

"I'm actually a Gemini, so I'll accept no slander, thank you very much," 

"You know, I haven't the foggiest what that means and yet I feel it explains so much," 

"I'm the one making your tea here, Shelby!" 

The pair giggle as Trixie heads to the table, placing a mug in front of each woman. 

"I love Christmas," says Sister Frances, untying her apron behind her back, "my parents always went all out," 

_ The pew is hardwood, numbing your body, though the complaint seems frivolous. You look to your left- your mother sits plain-faced, your father to her own left. _

_ Midnight mass, then home to bed. Wake in the morning, for Christmas with all the frills and fancies. Jewellery, perfume, new expensive dresses, the contents of those boxes that line the real pine in the sitting room. You care for none of it. What beckons you is so much greater than all of the material things everyone expects you to crave at your age.  _

_ Seventeen soon. Then into the big wide world. Although you fear it looks very different in your head then it does to the people on your left. _

"Good morning, ladies!" Phyllis appears in the kitchen, a spring in her step as she heads to the kettle herself.

"Morning, Phyllis," says Trixie, smiling at the older woman.

"It's certainly nippy today," she says, rubbing her arms over her chunky knitted cardi. 

"Well, just think you'll have a lovely hot dinner to come back to later," says Sister Frances as she scribbles intently at a meticulous checklist.

Phyllis smiles brightly, her soft spot for the youngest nun evident.

“Don’t forget, there’s still work to be done,”

Trixie rolls her eyes jokingly, earning a smile from Sister Frances.

“I saw that, Nurse Franklin,”

"Rolling bandages and counting pethidine supplies, the ideal festive activity," she says with a smile.

  
  


Patsy rolls over, relishing the moment as she drapes an arm over a sleeping Delia's waist. She feels her stir beneath her arms, her breath deepening as she turns to face Patsy.

"Merry Christmas, cariad," 

Patsy plants a kiss to Delia's forehead, holding her tighter as they lie in the cold morning air.

"Merry Christmas," she says quietly, taking in every detail of Delia's face. In the month since her return, the space between the sheets has been vast, and cold. Having Delia in her arms on Christmas morning is merely a bandaid. She is well aware there is work to be done, or perhaps it is irreparable. She shakes her head, for that is tomorrow's problem, today there is much more to care about. 

_ "Patsy," you hear a whisper from the girl beside you, blinking as you return from your daydream. Outside, the endless racket of angry men never ceases. You cannot understand their words, though their tone is unmistakable. You blink hard, the noise mounting up in your head. _

_ "Yes, Libby?" _

_ "It's the 25th, isn't it?" _

_ Your eyes dart to the wooden wall of the rundown shack, as you conduct a quick count of the numerous scratches you've made into it with a small pink fingernail over the year.  _

_ "If I've counted correctly," _

_ Elizabeth huddles into your side, taking a firm hold of your arm as she nestles into you. _

_ "Merry Christmas, Pat Pat," her voice is sweet and innocent and it hurts deep in your chest as you realise you are all she has. Christmas seems frivolous in your current hell, but you will muster the strength for her.  _

_ "Merry Christmas, Libby,"  _

_ She waits for a moment. _

_ "Do you suppose Father Christmas has forgotten us? What if he doesn't know we're here?" _

_ "Perhaps they won't let him in. I assume he's left all your toys with Father, so there's no need to worry,"  _

_ She nods, pacified at your answer.  _

"Are we at Nonnatus today?" Patsy asks as she rubs the sleep from her eyes before attending to the buttons on her shirt.

“We got the invite through last week, but it’s up to you,” says Delia as she brushes through soft brown hair in the mirror.

“We’d have to act differently if we did,” replies Patsy, still fiddling with the buttons, “oh, bloody hell!” 

“Come here,” Delia says, as Patsy lets her take over. She slides the button in before wrapping her arms around Patsy’s neck, “we don’t have to go. I just thought you’d like to,”

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” says Patsy, her hands finding their way to Delia’s waist. They both lean in, connecting at once with the longing and passion they’ve missed since Patsy’s return. It lasts a few seconds before Delia draws back.

“Just for a bit. Then we can come back here and be alone together, again,”

She smirks, wiping her bottom lip with her thumb and heading towards her closet.

“You really do have a lot of cheek, Busby,”

“I suppose you’re right. Though there’s no need to pretend you don’t love it, Patience,”

Patsy feels her cheeks burn pink as she looks down towards the floor, bottom lip drawn between her teeth. 

“We could always just stay here,” she says after a moment. Delia looks round with a smirk.

“No chance,” she says, “you’re going to be sociable, whether it’s the last thing you do,”

No arguing with that. 

_ The room of the nurse's home is silent as you clutch your wool blanket tight around your shoulders. It no longer smells like home- simply of your perfume and the shampoo you favour. Being solitary in your studies has gotten you here, yet it has left you lonely on the one day you should be surrounded by life. _

_ You sigh as you reach into the paper bag you collected from the bakery on your way home, retrieving your prize, a fresh mince pie, warm and inviting. As you clutch it between hands dried by disinfectant, you promise yourself one thing. Next Christmas will be different. It will be merry and bright, with people to share it with. _

_ “Merry Christmas, Beatrix,” you whisper softly. _

_ Next year will be different.  _

“Shelby!” Trixie squeals as Shelby sends a mist of cold water flying in her direction from the sink.

“Yes, Trixie?” Shelby says, unable to contain her grin as she laughs at Trixie’s bemusement. 

“You’re lucky I’m not all dolled up yet,” she says, sculpted eyebrows raised, “you’d  _ really  _ be in for it then,” 

“Is that a threat, Beatrix Franklin?” Shelby asks, drawing her bottom lip in between her teeth.

Trixie doesn’t answer, or rather she does, in the form of the wet rag being hurled in Shelby’s direction. The doctor catches it in one hand, earning a giggle from them both.

“I hope we’re making progress in between all this laughter,” says Phyllis as she enters, placing a box atop the counter, “instruments from the surgery, to be sterilised and bagged,” 

She leaves again.

Shelby throws up a mock salute, with a barely audible “Yessir” thrown in for good measure.

“You really push your luck, don’t you?” asks Trixie as she opens the box of silver.

“I’m allowed to,” replies Shelby, as she gets the autoclave prepped, “not that it matters,”

“Nothing but mischief, aren’t you?” says Trixie with a smile that can only be pinned as flirty.

"Well, most people consider it part of my charm and wit," she replies with a smirk.

“Who’s that then?” 

“Well, Trixie, isn’t  _ that  _ the question of the hour?” Shelby says, leaning against the counter with her arms folded.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” 

“That I’ve had no complaints from  _ you  _ thus far,” 

Trixie swats Shelby with the cloth in her hand.

“You’re a nightmare,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I’ll reiterate my last point,” says Shelby, heading to the radio atop the other counter. She fiddles with it until it crackles and comes to life. 

_ ‘But, as long as you love me so, _

_ Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow,’ _

“May I have this dance?” 

“Shelby! We’re meant to be cleaning!” Trixie says with a giggle.

“Right, but, maybe I was talking to the mop? Who says anything about you, Ebenezer?”

Trixie smiles again, letting Shelby take her hand.

“If Phyllis comes in, you’re in trouble,”

“Aren’t I always?” asks Shelby with a smirk as Trixie’s eyes meet hers. They stand still for a moment, hands clasped, one of Shelby’s resting as Trixie’s waist as delicately as it can.

“I suppose you got one thing right,” says Trixie, sighing as she swallows a lump in her throat, “it really does make you rather charming,”

“Exactly as I thought,” smirks Shelby again, letting Trixie go with a flourish as the song changes.

_ “Phyllis, lass,” your mother sits at the foot of your bed, making sure your home-knitted scarf is tucked tight to your ears, for fear of the bitter cold of the hostel, “Father Christmas tried his best, but-” _

_ “I know. You haven’t got much money to give him. No toys,” you say it with a rehearsed sort of tiredness. You know not to be excited any longer.  _

_ “He knew you needed something, though, my little chicken,” she says as gently as she can, producing a package wrapped crudely in newspaper, with a bow of twine keeping it closed. _

_ “A new pair of shoes?” your eyes light up at the prospect. It means no more cringing at the rain as you make your way to school, it means the kids in your class won’t laugh that they can see equally battered socks. A new pair of shoes, all for you. Smart brown leather, with neat grownup laces. You lean over from under your quilt, wrapping your arms as tightly around your mother as you can. As you let go, she produces a small brown paper bag. _

_ “Another treat for my grown-up girl,” she says with a smile, _

_ Two ripe, bright oranges fall onto your bed as you upend the bag. You take both, one in each hand, observing the patterned orange skin, imagining the sweetness on your tongue. You think for just a moment. _

_ “He must have given me two by accident,” you say with a naivety, a painful innocence. You outstretch one arm, handing an orange to your mother, “that’s why you don’t have anything. He gave it to me by mistake!”  _

_ She takes it, looking down at it in her hands. She averts her gaze only so that you can’t see the tears which fill her eyes, a bittersweet mix of pride and sorrow.  _

“Are we done in here?” 

Phyllis enters, a smile painted on her face. Trixie nods.

“Inventory is fully up to date, I’ve put orders in for after Christmas for anything we’re short of and every surface has positively been scrubbed. To death,” says Shelby as she closes the medicine cabinet.

“Well then,” says Phyllis, smiling once again, “I guess we can finally consider it Christmas, can’t we?” 

As she leaves, Trixie and Shelby share a glance. They link arms as they head back upstairs.

“You’ve certainly managed to win over Phyllis,” says Trixie as they fall into step.

“The Northerner sense,” says Shelby with a giggle, “you can take the girl out of Yorkshire, but you can’t take the Yorkshire out the girl,” 

Trixie rolls her eyes, expelling a sigh as she unlinks to push the door open. 

On the bed lies a dress she doesn’t recognise- soft, dark red silk, cinched in at the waist with mid-length sleeves and a soft sweetheart neckline.

“Merry Christmas, darl,” says Shelby, unable to contain her smile, letting it lighten her entire face.

“Oh, Shelby,” Trixie stands still in surprise for just a moment before she gently lifts the hanger, handling it as though it were spun from glass. 

“It is your size, I think? I mean- that’s if you even like it, you don’t- it’s fine if not, I mean-” 

“Like it? Shelby, it’s- beautiful,” 

The dress is placed back onto the bed as Trixie takes Shelby in her arms, holding tight.

“I just remembered you said something about your godmother’s dress allowance not coming through this year,” Shelby says nervously as she returns the hug, “you deserve something nice to wear for Christmas,” 

“I love it,” Trixie says, a near whisper through tears, “thank you, Shelby,” 

“Everything alright, lass?” Phyllis sits gently next to Lucille who is lost in thought, twirling an empty  _ Quality Street  _ cellophane in her hands. She nods softly, though unconvincingly.

“It just feels like there’s somebody missing,” she says after a moment. Phyllis nods.

To the untrained eye, there’s a full house. Patsy and Delia sit with Sister Julienne at the adjacent sofa, all three emitting the occasional hearty bout of laughter. The Turners sit ready at the table, Patrick pacifying the two girls with crayons and paper as Shelagh and Teddy bring steaming food onto the table with Sister Frances. Trixie and Shelby arrive downstairs as they observe, the accents of Trixie’s dress hitting the light as she walks, Shelby in a fresh navy cable knit and tailored slacks. They pause as Sister Monica Joan admires the fabric of Trixie’s dress, taking a section between aged fingers as she chatters away.

“You’re right, lass. Though I’m sure she’s having a wonderful day wherever she is, too,”

“What if she isn’t? Her family’s all here. She could be alone,”

“Not to worry, though, lass. You know Nurse Dyer. That woman could make friends anywhere,”

Lucille sighs, the wrapper still twirling around slender fingers.

“I spent my first Christmas in England alone. I don’t want that for Valerie,”

“I know, lass,” 

“She means a hundred things, to a hundred people. I still don’t understand, Phyllis,”

“There’s time for these thoughts after, I promise,” Phyllis places a gentle hand on Lucille’s knee. Lucille simply nods. 

As Shelby pours herself a drink, Trixie still occupied by the old nun, she hears the faint trilling of the doorbell.

“I’ll go,” she says curtly, as multiple heads whip around to face the general direction, “perhaps Fred and Violet decided to pop round,” 

She heads out of the lounge, approaching the door and opening it, being hit by the sudden cold wind outside. 

Peter.

"Look, I- I don't intend to stay, you've got your own people now, but," he produces a small box, red velvet, "I wanted to give you this, and wish you a Merry Christmas,"

Shelby takes it, gently lifting the lid.

"I know I haven't known big, grown-up Shelby for very long, but the one thing I can remember, though my brain gets awfully mixed up these days, is my little Shelby watching the frogs in the pond," 

“Oh, Pa,” Shelby feels her eyes sting as she looks at the contents of the box. 

A little glass frog, in a crystalline green colour, suspended on a keychain.

"I remembered you saying you've got a little motor as well. Perhaps he could go onto your keys?" Peter watches closely as Shelby takes it from the box, letting it dangle in the porch light, reflecting brilliantly through the coloured glass, "If it's not your- thing, don't feel you have to take it. No big deal, really," 

Shelby places the little frog back into its cushion of tissue paper, before she wraps her arms around the man in front of her.

"Merry Christmas, Pa," she says into the crook of his neck. He returns the hug, still uncertain, yet content in the moment. Shelby pulls back, "You'd best come in out of the cold. Why don’t you come and have a cuppa?" 

"Are you sure?" he asks quietly.

“Of course,” Shelby says, beckoning him in from the gale outside, “you look frozen,”

“I say!” Patsy’s voice appears behind Shelby, “Whoever is this?” 

“Patsy, this is my father. Peter,”

Patsy smiles, remembering the first week Shelby arrived, in which she told of her father's plight. She approaches Peter, politely offering a kind hand, a rare gesture for Patsy, though she feels it is more than warranted. He takes it in his own frozen hand, shaking it gently.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” she says, “I must dash, but I’d love to make acquaintances properly, if you’ll be staying,” 

Peter looks at Shelby.

“If I’m welcome, by all means,”

Shelby smiles at him, simply enjoying the interaction between the pair. 

“Everybody’s welcome here, Peter,” she says, before disappearing up the stairs.

“Just through here, I’m sure Sister Frances has just put some tea on,” she says, hooking his coat onto the first hook she finds.

“Sister?” He furrows his brow a little.

“She’s a nun, Pa. It’s a convent, remember?” 

“Ah, of course,” 

They arrive in the lounge, the general level of chatter still filling the room.

“Everyone,” she says, slightly above the chat, earning everyone’s attention, “there’s somebody I’d love for you all to meet,”

Peter steps forwards, steady on his cane, offering a warm smile to everyone.

“This is my father, Peter,” 

Shelby’s eyes dart to Trixie, seated on the arm of the sofa that holds Delia. She smiles, wide and pure, a genuine show of joy. 

“I’ve just sorted out some tea if you’d like some?” Sister Frances offers, gesturing to the fresh teapot on the table.

“That would be lovely,” he says, approaching a seat at the table, finding himself across from Doctor Turner. Shelby watches, her heart full, as they begin conversing, typical things really, cars and sports. May is seated on Patrick’s lap and Shelby watches as she giggles at Peter, offering him a paper crown pulled from a cracker.

“You let him in, then?” Trixie appears beside Shelby as the taller woman leans against the doorframe, observing the Nonnatuns take Peter in as one of their own. 

“I did. And I’m really glad I did, Bea,”

“He seems to have won over Sister Monica Joan, not that that’s exactly a challenge,” 

They smile for a moment, simply taking in the scene.

“Oh, Bea,” Shelby says, reaching into the pocket of her slacks, “I meant to give you these, but I got a bit caught up,”

A delicate little gift box, adorned with a gold ribbon. Trixie unties the ribbon, opening the box.

“Hatpins!” Trixie laughs a little, taking one between her fingers, observing the delicate gold.

“You know, since our first encounter was me picking your hat off the floor,”

“Don’t let Phyllis catch word of that,” she says with a smile, “though, perhaps I did it on purpose. I’m ever a believer of letting fate take over,”

“Well, in that case, fate’s done its job and I think we can both agree your hat can stay firmly on your head,” 

Shelby smirks as she takes Trixie’s hand in her own, leading her out and down the corridor a little.

“I think I can agree with that,” Trixie says. A quick scan of their surroundings, for passing nuns, before Shelby gently pulls her in, their lips meeting.

“Beatrix Franklin, you absolute menace!” 

The deep voice echoes down the corridor as they both turn to see Patsy, newly arrived down the stairs. They laugh as Patsy mockingly raises her eyebrows.

“I’ll have to advise Sister Frances to bring the mistletoe out here next year,” she says with a wink, before disappearing back into the sitting room. 

On her way back in, she all but bumps into Lucille.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, noting the woman's demeanour. Lucille nods.

“Just heading out for some fresh air,” she says quietly, “it’s rather hot in here,” 

Patsy nods understandingly, shooting a sympathetic glance her way. 

Lucille lets the doors slam shut behind her, relishing in the cool air as it hits and soothes her burning cheeks. She sighs, heaviness filling her heart. Cyril is with his mechanic friends, he had informed her of this as she passed him a lovingly crafted invite just a week prior. She didn’t admit that it hurt, didn’t have the heart to, simply nodded and wished her well. Valerie was, well, Valerie. Gone, with no word since her departure. 

She lifts herself off of the cold stone steps, deciding to take a short stroll, not quite ready to return. Her feet hit the gravel road, absentminded steps following one after the other. She’s lost in thought, so completely that she almost doesn’t hear the familiar voice calling after her.

“Alright, chick?” asks the voice.

Then the woman it is connected to appears from the shadows, illuminated by the dull orange streetlamp.

“Valerie?”

Lucille takes a moment, before she is in Valerie’s arms, the other woman’s suitcase hitting the pavement with a dull thud. She never imagined she’d miss the smell of Henley’s, but they mix with Val’s perfume in such a way that makes her heart sink as she clings on.

“Merry Christmas, Lu,” 

“I missed you,” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas! i hope you enjoy this little nugget of soft Christmas goodness as much as I enjoyed writing it. thankyou for all of the support in 2020, bringing my little doctor of to life has been such a challenge but it's certainly paying off :)


	18. change.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change came. Change stayed. Change became their new normal. 

"Are you back?" 

Lucille's face falls as Valerie shakes her head. 

"Valerie, please," her tone nears on pleading as she looks into Val's eyes.

"I can't, Lu," her own voice is almost a whisper.

"Why not? We all miss you so, Valerie," 

"I can't. Nonnatus isn't my home anymore," her eyes fall, avoiding Lucille's gaze entirely.

"It could be," replies Lu, soft and sweet as always, "what's the suitcase if you don't plan to stay?" 

Val taps the side of her nose, a small gesture that speaks volumes.

"Onto new pastures I suppose," she says, "try something new. You know me," 

Lucille nods slowly, painfully. 

"What have I missed then?" 

"Well, Patsy went missing, though she's back now. I don't know why. I didn't pry. Doctor Manning bought a car and now Cyril is using it as his excuse to hang around, though I don't suppose I mind it, and Trixie is- Trixie,"

Val sighs, breath clouding.

"You know why I left, don't you chick?" 

Lu shrugs half heartedly. 

"These things just happen, don't they? I'm fine with it,"

"I went to Paris," 

"I know. You told me," Lucille's dejection is clear.

"I met Magda, Lu," 

Lucille scoffs, the woman's name a kick in the face at once. She bites the inside of her cheek, anger bubbling instantaneously.

"Should've known," she says, quiet, bitter. 

"Lu-"

"You promised. You swore she was out of the question, yet you never wrote me back, while I was worried sick, and now I know why," 

Lucille stands at once, anger clear.

"Lucille, just bloody listen to me!"

"Don't you raise your voice at me, Valerie. You made a promise that what we had was safe, and you have gone and broken it," 

Val's gaze is once again cast towards the ground.

"Lu, I'm sorry," her tone is dejected and genuine.

"No more, Valerie. I hope life brings you happiness, but I no longer wish to be a part of it," 

She turns and fades into the darkness. 

Trixie passes the lighter to Patsy, the gilded shell catching the porch light as she does. 

"Never did I take you for that type, Trixie," says Patsy, inhaling nicotine.

"Neither did I," she replies with a small smile, "though you can't help who you fall for, can you?" 

Patsy shakes her head. Trixie reaches for her hand, grasping tight with an affirming squeeze.

"We'll be alright, won't we?" asks Trixie. Patsy turns her head, blowing smoke from the side of her lips, "All of us?" 

Patsy thinks for a moment.

"I hope so,"

Trixie sighs.

"Well, it's unlikely I'll be back to nursing any time soon. Perhaps I could become a baker, I've always been a dab hand with shortbread," 

Trixie smiles, disguising the dread she feels at the finality of Patsy's words. 

"You might be back, one day," she says. 

"I doubt that, Trixie. Not when you consider- that,"

Trixie's eyes meet the floor.

"I worry, Trixie," says Patsy, "for Delia," 

"How come?"

"I put her through all of this stress and when you really boil it down it all seems rather pointless," 

"Things have happened, Patsy, there's no denying that, but it's not to say you can't fix it,"

"My career is in tatters, Delia will barely look at me, when she's not working back to back shifts that is, and even you've moved on," 

"Oh, no, Patsy, it's not like that,"

"Well it certainly seemed it,"

"Shelby is-"

"I get it, Trixie, you don't have to treat me like a child,"

"I'm simply saying we're finding our feet with it all," 

"I suppose you certainly found something, "

Trixie scoffs.

"What is that supposed to mean, Patsy? Are you jealous of her? Is that it?" 

"Don't be ridiculous,"

"I don't think I am. So only you're allowed to find somebody now, is that what you're saying?" 

"Of course it isn't!"

"Well I'd adjust your tone, because it certainly seems that way,"

"Trixie. I'm bloody well elated for you, of course I am,"

"You certainly have a strange way of showing it,"

"You know how it is. I truly am happy for you,"

Patsy drops her cigarette on the floor, stamping it in with the toe of her brogues. She slides across the step, wrapping an arm around Trixie.

"I'm sorry, for the way it's all turned out," says Trixie.

"We'll be alright, Trixie," Patsy's voice is soft and gentle, "we always are," 

"Your father is a lovely man," 

Shelby turns, a plate half wrapped in a tea towel held firmly in her grasp.

Sister Julienne appears in the doorway, a kind smile painted on her lips. Shelby simply nods.

"He's been through a lot, Sister,"

"And to come out on top of it all," she replies, taking the dried plate from Shelby, "you must hold a lot of pride for him,"

Shelby sighs.

"I didn't. For a long time,"

Sister Julienne smiles.

"What does he make of all of this?" 

"He thinks it's wonderful," the whistling kettle diverts her attention, "hasn't quite wrapped his head around the idea that I'm a woman  _ and  _ a doctor, but I suppose we'll get there," 

"The world will find itself having to understand, soon enough," 

"They say that about a lot of things, don't they?"

"They do?"

Sister Julienne tilts her head, gratefully accepting the teacup Shelby slides across the counter.

"Well, I mean, Lucille's our very own proof of that, isn't she?" says Shelby, heaping sugar into her own tea, "And there's talk of all these different acts and laws that'll free so many people,"

Sister Julienne nods again, though this time it is tinged with sadness.

"One day, we will live within a society in which people don't lose their livelihoods over love," replies the older nun, "whether I'm around to see it or not, it is very much on the horizon, Doctor," 

"I hope so, Sister," she replies softly, "because there's some brilliant midwives out there," 

"Nurse Mount is an exceptional midwife, if that's what you're referencing," 

"Perhaps I am," says Shelby, eyes hitting the ground, "if you don't mind my saying, I think it's a load of nonsense," 

"As do I,"

Shelby looks back up, meeting the woman's eyes.

"You do?"

"I don't find great pleasure in having to suspend one of my best midwives over her private business," 

"Why, then?" 

"Rules are rules. Laws are laws. Laws that Nurse Mount was well aware of before and during training,"

Sister Julienne sighs, before turning on her heel.

Her teacup sits on the side, steam dissipating in her absence. 

"The only answer she had was 'it's the law', Trixie, which in the grand scheme of things isn't even accurate,"

Shelby looks up at the ceiling in near pitch-black, hands behind her head as she tries to drift off. Trixie waits a little.

"No, you're right. Though, for all her progressiveness, Sister Julienne is still a nun, and an older nun at that," 

"I'm sure she'd thank you for that," 

"Don't get me wrong, she's wonderful and understanding, but she's a stickler for what is correct sometimes, even if it's not right," 

"I just don't see how any of this is fair," 

"None of us do," replies Trixie, softly, "people shouldn't lose their livelihoods over who they love. We fought a war over fascism, and that's what that is," 

"Too right," sighs Shelby, "though I do wish there was something we could do, rather than leaving her in the dirt by herself,"

Trixie thinks for just a moment.

"Is there nothing you could do? You're a doctor, Shelby, surely the board would listen?" 

"They'd listen if I was a man,"

"Oh,"

"Yes. Precisely,"

"Doctor Turner?"

"I'm not entirely sure it's his cause,"

"No harm in trying," replies Trixie, sleepily, before she rolls over, her breath becoming shallow. 

"Perhaps not," sighs Shelby, barely audibly.

The new year faded into Poplar, much the same as it had been before the clock hit twelve. 

Life became normal again. Births, clinics, endless cups of tea. The things that filled their lives, monotonous, or at least it should have been. They each found it was very much the opposite, finding delight in the little and the large. 

Lucille lamented the loss of Valerie, mourning someone still very much alive. She had no idea of Val's destination after Poplar, didn't care, didn't ask. Turned a me leaf, pacified herself with work and with the kind young man who often came for tea with the oldest nun.

Patsy lamented a loss too, grieving deeply for the career she loved. Still loved, though found herself aching from the sidelines. Longing to be back where she belonged, even when she saw Delia near collapse on her return home from night shifts and on call district duties. The days seeped into one miserable, lonely stretch of time, spending most of it alone, not daring to enter the hub for the job that had shunned her.

Trixie changed along with the last digit on the calendar. There was an awkward tension exuding from her, one that made Shelby shiver and reconsider the attic with its leaky roof and draughty doorway. She shrugged away kind hands, taking any extra shift she could. Denied the distance, almost as much as she denied herself. Denied Shelby.

Change came. Change stayed. Change became their new normal. 

"Ladies,"

Sister Julienne enters the chatter filled dining room, silencing it at once. For the first time since Christmas, the table is full, sans one redhead, preferring to make her separation from Nonnatus House more than apparent. All heads turn. 

"If I may have your attention,"

She has it, had it all from the moment she first spoke, she knows this, but she's stalling. Struggling. 

"The new year brings unprecedented budget cuts," she begins, hands folded together in front of her, "with the bigger hospitals getting shinier and newer, there are always adjustments made. Difficult adjustments,"

The table holds a collective breath.

"Nonnatus House is due for closure,"


	19. as the world begins to shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How many female doctors do you see at The London?"

"We all have jobs waiting at The London, at least," says Lucille, shying away from the freshly lit cigarette in Trixie's left hand. They all sit in the allotment, fresh air biting through scarves and cardigans, though they don't mind. 

"Mhm," comes the murmur from- well, somebody. 

"Oh, Patsy," Trixie says, shooting a glance at the redhead. 

"I've heard nothing back from the board and with such a dramatic shift in proceedings- I doubt I ever will." She shrugs, nonchalant to the untrained eye, but then again Trixie is not that eye. 

"I _promise_ I've been appealing, I have. The least I can do is get you recertified before we all disperse." Shelby says, pulling apart a stray dock leaf. 

"Before we all- _disperse_?" Lucille's voice is soft and wary. 

"Well, yes. I mean, you'll all be seeing each other, but..." 

"You're not taking the London offer?" Delia asks, her hand rested in the small of Patsy's back, away from any questioning glances. 

"I don't _have_ a London offer, Luce," she replies, eyes dropping to the floor, "not yet. Though I'm starting to wonder if there's one at all." 

"You mean?" 

"I spoke with Doctor Turner after Sister Julienne informed us on Monday. He received his offer the day of, almost three whole days ago now. If they were hiring me, they would have been quick about it, surely?" 

"Perhaps lost in the post?" asks Lucille.

"Mulling it over?" from Delia.

"Coming with our formal offers?" Trixie adds. 

"How many female doctors do you see at The London?" Shelby asks. 

Silence. 

"Precisely. I'll be on a train back to Yorkshire before those trees start sprouting green again," 

"You can't just leave!" says Trixie. 

Shelby turns to look directly at her at this. Shelby drops the mashed remnants of the leaf she was holding, rubbing the remaining water between weathered fingers.

"Well, Trixie, it wouldn't bother you, would it?" she asks, suddenly shooting daggers in the direction of the blonde, "I haven't existed since New Year, have I?" 

She stands and leaves, feeling multiple sets of eyes in her back. 

The group turn to Trixie, whos gaze falls to the floor with the last ash of her Sobranie. 

"What was that about?" asks Patsy, reaching to pluck the dwindling cigarette from Trixie's fingers. 

"Nothing. Just, well- Shelby," she responds, looking up with a coy smile. 

"She seems angry," replies Lucille. 

"She's probably on edge about the whole London affair," suggests Delia. 

"No. She was annoyed with you in particular, Trixie. Have you said something?" 

They wait. Trixie rolls her eyes. 

"I perhaps have- pushed her to the side a little. Maybe," 

Patsy sighs, throwing the crumpled cigarette butt into the hard earth of the cabbage patch. 

"Whatever for?" 

"It's complicated," 

"It's me you're talking to, Trixie," she replies, folding her arms. 

"Just leave it, Patsy," Trixie sighs. 

The other women nod, however unconvinced they may be.

  
  


Trixie reenters the house, seeing Shelby flurry through the hallway, medical bag firmly in hand. 

"Shelby?" 

"Can it wait, Bea? I've got a patient with vasculitic leg ulcers in urgent need of a dressing change." 

The question is rhetorical. Trixie waits, hearing the engine turn over and the car pull away. Phyllis sighs from the clinical room as Trixie enters. 

"These patients really don't heed their aftercare instructions, do they? Calling poor Doctor out in a hurry like that, they're lucky she owns a car now," 

"Phyllis." 

"Yes, lass?" she replies, scribbling notes on the clipboard she holds as she looks into the cabinet. "Do me a favour, will you, take inventory of the ergometrine?" 

Trixie turns to the fridge. 

"Did you know that The London aren't taking Shelby on?" 

"No, I didn't, actually. They've taken Doctor Turner." 

"I know. Which is why I asked." 

The older woman turns, watching as Trixie shuffles through boxes. 

"There's more to it though, isn't there?" she asks, with that soft wise tone that never fails to hit Trixie right beneath the ribs. 

"No." 

"If you say so." Phyllis nods, unconvinced entirely. 

"I just- don't know if- not that I'm relieved, because that would be ghastly, but-" 

"It would be easier to ignore the way you feel if she left." Phyllis says, glasses tipped to the edge of her nose. 

"I suppose, yes. I mean, Patsy still isn't recertified and she was in her own time, in her own apartment. It would be testing fate, surely, to- I mean," 

"These things aren't easy, I know. But sometimes you just have to- follow your instincts. Things are slightly different here, of course, but- you always find a way. It's what I like best about you." Phyllis says, as though it's the most simple state of affairs possible. 

It isn't. Trixie knows it isn't. Phyllis knows, too, but to tell Trixie this would be entirely unhelpful. 

"These records need taking over to the maternity home, in preparation for the move. Would you mind, lass?" 

"Not at all," Trixie smiles. 

"Nurse Franklin! More records, I assume?" Shelagh says, brushing off non existent dust from her crisp white apron. 

"Yes. All the mothers due to deliver between April and June. All cleared by Phyllis, ready to be filed away." Trixie places the box onto tje desk, taking a breath as she leans against it. 

"Wonderful, thank you. It's awful news, isn't it?" 

Trixie nods. 

"Are you alright, Trixie? You look like you're coming down with something." Shelagh says gently. 

"Fine, thank you. It's bitter out there." she tries to offer a smile. 

Doctor Turner opens the door of his office, approaching them both down the stairs. 

"More records? Brilliant," he says, rubbing his hands together, smiling over at Trixie. 

"I assume you've received your London offer?" Trixie asks Shelagh as she replaces the box lid. 

"We have, yes. Gratefully accepted, of course." 

"Did Doctor Manning receive hers? They offered to post it to Nonnatus, but I assured them it would arrive more safely should I pass it on directly."

Trixie looks at him wordlessly. 

"What? What is it?" Shelagh asks, concern growing as she sees Trixie's brow furrow. 

"She- she told me she hadn't received an offer." 

"She certainly has. We opened them together, here in my office, the Tuesday she took over Nurse Busby's shift," he responds, leaning against the doorframe of his office. 

"I shall have to ask her," Trixie responds, backing towards the door. 

"Thank you for dropping these off, Trixie," Shelagh calls after her. 

Trixie barely hears them as she hits the doors, pushing them open with all of her weight.

  
  


"Shelby!" Trixie calls, arriving through the main door and shutting it hastily, cheeks and nose bitten red. 

"She isn't here, lass. I was wondering if she'd picked you up along the way," Phyllis says, appearing from the kitchen, nursing a steaming mug of tea. 

"No, she hasn't," replies Trixie. "I need to speak with her,"

"I'm not long in myself, actually," says Phyllis, leaning on the back of the empty armchair, "there's been an awful smash, the traffic was horrendous," 

Lucille appears from down the stairs. 

"Same make as Shelby's. See, I told you all those new makes are unreliable, I'll have to let her know when she's back, though if she's commuting home now she'll be well aware," 

Phyllis' comment is light hearted as she cups her hands around the steaming mug. 

A second of silence. 

Her face drops, the colour draining. 

Trixie makes a dash for the phone.


	20. laid to rest.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Their eyes burn into the back of her head, into her spine, dig in where it hurts."

Humble. Sleek. A dash of charm.

Sweet, soft flowers, in so many colours, adorn the polished wood of the coffin Trixie faces.

All the things she'd been.

Trixie's chest burns.

She can't escape it.

Their eyes burn into the back of her head, into her spine, dig in where it hurts.

Do they know?

They _can't._

But they might.

They won't.

Never will.

"Chin up, Trixie,"

When did Val get here?

Early flight, one presumes.

"It'll all be alright, Trixie," 

No it won't, Delia.

Stop lying.

Why is everybody so inclined to lie?

Things stopped being 'alright' when Shelby took that corner.

When the other car took it too, distracted by… whatever it was.

Things haven't been alright since.

Now they never will.

"Trixie?"

A Northern lilt.

Not the one she wants, the one she yearns to hear, but one that's warm.

"Trixie?" 

Trixie jolts awake, head pounding, neck stiff and burning from the awkward angle she's slept on it.

Phyllis sits on the sofa, by her legs, which are suddenly draped lovingly in a hand knitted blanket. 

" 'M sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep," Trixie mutters, feeling a warm hand laying on the top of her arm, offering a gentle squeeze.

"I imagine you needed it, lass," soothes Phyllis, "Nurse Mount has just popped by- Nurse Busby telephoned to say that she has seen Doctor Manning," 

Trixie looks up at her through bleary eyes.

"She's alive- but,"

"She's alive," repeats Trixie, eyes filling.

"She's wounded, lass. You can head up and see her once you've had a proper rest," 

Trixie rights herself, pushing the blanket away from her.

"No, I need to see her now-"

"She's just come out of surgery,"

"Surgery? Phyllis, what- no, are you _sure_ she's alright?" 

"Nurse Busby assured me that she's alive and that she's doing well. Now, up to bed with you."

"I've already slept." 

Phyllis sighs. Smiles gently at the blonde. 

Takes her keys from the side table. 

  
  
  
  


"Shelby!" Trixie says as she enters through the boil wash cotton curtain, sitting in the hard plastic chair at the bedside.

"Delia? No- it's Val, isn't it?" 

Trixie's heart sinks. She simply looks at Shelby as her eyebrows knit together.

Then a smile, bright for all its weariness.

"Bea, I'm joking with you," Shelby laughs.

"You're a menace, Shelby," 

"I can't- you came?" she says, lacing her hand with Trixie's, wary of bulky rubber tubing.

"Of course I did." 

"I'm a good seventy-five percent ironmongery at present," says Shelby, gesturing downwards. Sure enough, her left leg is concealed with heavy metal brackets, held straight with the steel 

"They managed to rebuild it, I'm quite lucky actually," she says, leaning her head back against the pillows.

"You scared me," Trixie whispers.

" 'M sorry, Bea," Shelby says, giving her hand a soft squeeze.

"You aren't to say that, not to me, not to anyone. I've been awful," 

"I shouldn't have snapped like that," says Shelby, "besides, if we argue again I can't storm out with a flourish. An awkward hobble doesn't quite embellish the point,"

Trixie lets herself laugh.

Then it drops again.

"What will you do?" Trixie asks, gentle.

"I haven't a clue, Bea." She sighs.

"I know about your offer," Trixie adds quickly, "Doctor Turner told me," 

"He did? Suddenly I don't feel quite so bad for lumbering him with extra district duties." Shelby smiles. It isn't returned.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought it'd be easier. If I had no job, I'd have no reason to stay."

"Easier for who?" Trixie is wary of her tone, given the circumstances.

"For you, Bea. Always for you," 

Sister Julienne brings prayers. 

Sister Monica Joan comes bearing a stolen lemon muffin, sometimes half a packet of bourbons, purloined straight from the Nonnatus cake tin. 

Peter drops in on the third day, summoned by Patsy, who remembers the address scribbled in the book in the hall, offers a well placed joke about their matching canes, though can't help but shed a tear once he's out in the corridor.

"My little girl."

Patsy brings what Patsy brings best, none of "that sympathy crap", just an honest conversation and a sneaky cigarette.

Phyllis brings Trixie. When the blonde can bear to visit, that is. She seems conveniently busy lately.

Doctor Turner brings news.

He taps the back of his pen against the leg bound in steel, just below the knee.

"Anything?" 

Shelby shakes her head.

"I'm not going to walk, am I?" she asks. The question is blunt, but she's educated enough to know she can't beat around the bush with it.

"Maybe. We just need- we'll have to reassess the damage." 

Patrick sighs. 

"Doctor-"

"Please. I- I think I'd prefer you to use my name." 

"Shelby." He sighs, clipping his pen back onto his breast pocket. "You're lucky to be alive, you know?" 

"I know that. I just- my life _is_ my career. If I can't go back to work, I don't really have a lot, do I?" Shelby looks him directly in the eyes.

"We can get you into physiotherapy, I'm sure you know the options. Until then, we can get you mobile on these- _lovely-_ hospital issue crutches," he smiles at her, as she offers one back.

"I'm sure Trixie can work some of her magic on them. Wouldn't let me be seen out with such an eyesore." she pauses, twirling the edge of the thin blanket around her finger. "How is Trixie?" 

"I thought- Nurse Crane said she's been bringing her to visit." 

"I haven't seen her since the first day I was here." She sighs again, "I'll be home soon, though, I suppose." 

"That's the spirit. I'm sure they all miss you back at Nonnatus."

"Trixie doesn't like to sleep alone." Shelby's eyes drop to the crisp white sheets. 

"She won't be for long." Patrick assures her, "We'll just have to get you mobile enough to tackle the stairs, won't we?" 

She offers him a smile. All she can offer, really. 

  
  
  


"How is she?" Patsy places the steaming mug in front of Delia, sitting in the chair opposite.

"She's- taking it all quite well, actually." Delia answers, stirring a generous teaspoon of honey into her tea.

"Which one are we on about?" Patsy asks with a slight smile.

"Shelby. Though she's rather feeling the effects of cabin fever. As for-" 

The conversation is disrupted by the sudden knocking of the front door. Patsy stands, heading to open it, giving Delia's shoulder a firm squeeze as she passes her. 

"Trixie?" 

The blonde stands before her, still in uniform, hands absentmindedly held together as she picks at the back of her hand.

"Sorry, I-" Her gaze hits the floor. Patsy's mind suddenly spins.

"Did you?" 

"No. I didn't. I just- can't bear to be alone." 

"Come on, you. Delia and I have just made a fresh pot of tea, I'm sure there's a cup spare." 

Trixie sits at Patsy's kitchen table, the warmth seeping through, unfreezing her hands, taking the pink away from her nose.

She watches them as they interact, the silent glances as Delia talks, the hands linked together (no longer hidden, mind), the squeeze and the touches on Patsy's back as Delia stands up from the table.

It all hurts. 

But she knows nobody hurts more than the girl lying alone in a sterile white bed, leg bound in metal and screws.

So she smiles. Sips tea like there's nothing wrong. Patsy attends to a phonecall out in the hallway, brows knitting together as she listens. Delia laughs her way through anecdotes of her shifts at The London and Trixie swallows the ever-growing guilty feeling in her chest.

Outside, the sky darkens. 

  
  



	21. square one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That really isn't your burden to bear."

Delia tucks the blanket underneath Trixie's chin, standing up from the sofa to join Patsy in the kitchen.

"I've phoned Sister Julienne, she knows Trixie's with us for tonight." Patsy says, not looking up from the papers she's studying meticulously. Delia waits for a moment.

"What was that phone call about earlier?" 

"Correspondence from Hong Kong." Patsy replies, tapping her pen against a few particular printed words.

"Oh?"

"There's a hefty sum out there in a few offshore accounts. As the last remaining Mount, I imagine I have claim to it. I've been trying for weeks." 

Delia takes Patsy's glass of bourbon, thieving a sip.

"Can you get to it?" 

Patsy shrugs.

"They're combing through my father's will as we speak, so only time will tell, really." 

"Why do you want it so desperately? Why now?" 

Patsy sighs.

"Nonnatus House can't close, Deels. If I can't offer them anything in the way of actual work, the least I can do is fund their stay here in Poplar." 

'Oh, Pats." Delia reaches across, runs her hand up and down Patsy's back.

"It's the least I can do. Even if the board won't recertify me."

"You really are a sort of angel." Delia leans forwards, planting a gentle kiss to Patsy's lips.

"Come on, lass." 

Phyllis watches, standing close by to help, as Shelby brings herself to stand, awkwardly, clumsily, clinging onto the steel cane in her left hand. There's a slight grimace painted across her face and Phyllis notes it. 

"Let's get you home." 

They head out through sterile corridors, the metal wrapped around Shelby's leg, holding it straight, clinking at every laboured step.

"Nurse Crane." 

"Yes?"

"I've been- well, I had a lot of time to think, obviously, given-" 

"What is it?" 

They step into the lift.

"Perhaps I should- consider leaving Nonnatus. Maybe Poplar." 

"Why?" 

"Well, I mean- given the circumstances, I- I'm about as much use as this bloody leg at present." Shelby sighs, looking down at the brace fastened tight over the offending limb.

"You're one of us, lass." Phyllis replies as they head out of the lift, approaching the main doors of the building. "You aren't going anywhere."

"You all spend your entire lives looking after people, you needn't be living with one too." 

"We care about you. Poor Nurse Franklin's desperate to see you." 

Phyllis lifts the trunk of her car, placing Shelby's suitcase gently inside. Shelby lowers herself into the passenger seat, wincing slightly with the waves of pain.

"Is she?"

"Of course."

"Then why did she stop coming?" Shelby turns to face Phyllis as she fiddles with the key, slotting it into the exhaust. Shelby tenses as the engine turns over. A gentle hand is placed on her knee, the one not burdened with steel, 

"Because she loves you. So deeply that seeing you hurt was something that she couldn't bear." 

Shelby nods. Phyllis doesn't press on anymore than she has to.

She says nothing more on the matter. Says nothing more on anything, neither does Shelby, though the white hue of her knuckles on the inside door handle, the flinching at every horn or brake squeal, the gripping onto the bottom of her coat as Phyllis touches the brakes, says more than any words could. Phyllis decides on a back route, quieter, less complicated, to ease Shelby's burdens, even just a little.

  
  


"Nurse Crane will be here with Doctor Manning any moment, now." Sister Julienne says as she enters the clinical room. Trixie doesn't look up, simply resumes her disrupted count of bandages and sterile gauze.

"You hear that, Trixie? You're getting your roommate back." Lucille says lightly.

"I've lost count now." Trixie mutters.

"Nurse Franklin? May I have a moment of your time?" 

Trixie turns her attention to Sister Julienne. Follows in her path.

"I understand that recent events may be- difficult for you." 

The nun gestures to the chair opposite her desk. Trixie takes a seat, looking at her hands folded in her lap.

"It's fine, Sister, really." 

"There are going to have to be several adjustments, in Doctor's best interests." 

"Can she- or is she- will she have to move?" Trixie asks, struggling for the words, careful with what is said.

"Doctor Manning has been through a lot. Her convalescence with us will be difficult. Not only for her." 

"What about when we have to move on? She won't- she'll still be recovering by then." Trixie looks up to face Sister Julienne, who looks back with kind eyes.

"Her father still lives here in Poplar. I imagine he will have a space for her." Sister Julienne speaks with a gentle matter of fact tone, one which sets Trixie on edge.

"We can't just move her around like that! With respect, Sister, she isn't a spare part, she's a person and she's a part of our family." 

Sister Julienne takes a sharp breath in.

"We will do our best with what we have. The future is something we can address when it arrives." 

The sound of an engine approaches, before it cuts out completely.

"Until then, we have somebody to welcome home." 

  
  


Shelby's limited mobility sees her as far as up the stairs, as she finds herself sat on her own bed, finally settled. Trixie holds out the cigarette tin to her.

"I'll have to give you a few bob to pick me some up. Haven't had a chance. Obviously." 

Trixie waits for Shelby's smile to crack before she laughs along, hesitant yet at ease.

"I'm sorry I left you." Trixie says after a moment.

"Trixie, it really doesn't matter." Shelby assures her.

"It does. You needed somebody and I was too caught up in my own affairs to be that somebody." 

"I understand. Really, it- I had Sister Monica Joan there, mostly." Shelby smiles.

"Exactly." 

They both giggle lightly.

"It's a shame I'm not in the state for Keep Fit. I could do with it, with all of the stolen baked goods she supplied." 

Trixie laughs again, watching as Shelby's face suddenly contorts with pain.

"Does it- does it always hurt?" The question is quiet, gentle. Shelby shrugs.

"It comes and goes. The brace keeps it in place, so I suppose it helps."

Trixie nods sadly. She watches as Shelby tucks a stray piece of hair away, clearly exhausted from the general strain of whatever life has brought about. Trixie switches across to her bed, sitting herself behind Shelby, as cautiously and gently as she can. Taking the brush from the bedside table, she smooths it gently through Shelby's hair.

"I told you I was going to do something with your hair one day." Trixie says as she sections the blonde waves, dropping her cigarette into the ashtray.

"Only took one smashed up leg to get your own way." Shelby replies laughingly. 

There's a pause as Trixie braids.

"Are you- will it get better?" 

"I don't know. They don't know yet." 

They wait again.

Trixie ties off the end of one french plait.

"We'll be alright, Bea. We will." 

Whoever she's trying to convince, she isn't sure it's working. 

  
  


There's a knock at the door as Shelby rouses awake, positioned awkwardly atop her covers on account of her new state of being. She lets out an ambiguous murmur as the door opens to reveal Patsy.

"Oh! I- sorry, I didn't realise you were asleep." Patsy closes the door, coming to sit on Trixie's bed.

"I wasn't, really." Shelby sighs, making an effort to sit up. Patsy watches as she lifts her wounded leg, moving it with great difficulty so that she can sit to face Patsy. 

The redhead tries to no avail not to watch. Knows the pain of being spectated during her darkest hours.

"It's fine. Suppose I'd better get used to stares and questions." The tone is light, though the words tell a different story.

"I know you'd probably rather be on your own for the time being, but-" 

Patsy looks down, a small white tub held between her hands, "your face- some of those cuts look rather nasty. This cold cream- I find it works wonders on scars like that. Makes them less- visible. They hurt less, too."

She holds the tub out. Shelby takes it gratefully. 

"Thank you, Patsy." She places it on the bedside table. "Look, don't think that this stops my appeals to the board for you." 

"What?"

"I can still write letters and, if it calls for it, attend board meetings. I promised I'd get you recertified." 

"You don't have to, Shelby, really, you don't." 

"I owe you, Patsy. Delia's on side with it all, for persuasion on her side over at the London."

"Whatever do you owe me for?" Patsy asks, running her index fingernail against her thumb.

"You're here, aren't you?" Shelby says. Her gaze hits the floor once again.

"Because you're a friend." 

"Thank you, Patsy." 

  
  


Shelby makes no effort to move the next morning. She holds the blanket closer to herself, shuts away the world, curls in on herself as close as the ironmongery she's burdened with will allow. 

Trixie lets her sleep, lulls her with the medication that numbs the ache. 

Sister Frances asks about breakfast. Offers a slice of buttered toast and a cup of well sugared Earl Grey.

It still sits on the bedside, cold and untouched, by the time Sister Hilda enters the room with inquiries about lunch.

"Come on, poppet. Get something down you. You'll feel better for it." 

Shelby withdraws more. Flinches at a car horn blaring from outside the window.

"My medication ruins my appetite." 

The nun simply nods and leaves.

Trixie returns home, heading upstairs to change, finding the curled up frame of the young doctor exactly where she was left that morning.

"Need anything?" 

A gentle, simple question. Shelby shakes her head.

Trixie sits on the edge of her bed, gently avoiding the parts that ache, tracing her fingers along Shelby's arm. The other woman barely moves, barely registers the touch. 

Trixie wishes she understood. Understanding would mean she could help.

The next day is much the same. 

As the sky darkens, Shelby forces herself up and out of bed. Crosses through the hall, for all it's painful awkwardness, serenaded with the echoing chorus of the nuns downstairs. 

Val's spare key. The one only Shelby and Lucille know about, left conveniently in Lucille's trinket dish. She lets it dangle in the lamplight for just a moment. 

Then the main door slams with the wind, and Shelby realises what she's doing. Conceals the key in the pocket of her pyjamas, slipping out of the room and into the hallway.

"Do you need any help, precious?" 

She means well. Lucille never means anything with malice and this fact isn't new, yet it does nothing to stop the unprovoked anger deep between Shelby's ribs. She pushes it away. 

"No, thanks, Luce. I think I'm alright." 

Lucille nods, heading into her own room. 

Trixie arrives back from the maternity home.

Shelby hears her from her safe haven, back under her covers.

Part of her hopes she's coming up to change, so that she has to come into their shared room.

That part loses.

Shelby shudders.

  
  


"How's our patient?" 

Trixie's tone is jovial and it takes them all by surprise. 

"I saw her earlier." Lucille answers, sliding the ashtray across the table to Trixie. 

"No better, I'm afraid. Seems to be struggling on account of it all, poor lamb." 

"I'm not surprised, though." Sister Frances pitches in, warily.

"Do you think- I mean- are  _ all  _ her burdens physical?" Trixie answers. 

"Well, she's all but lost one of her legs, I imagine that's taken quite the emotional toll." comes the reply from Sister Hilda.

"No, of course." Trixie sighs, ashing her cigarette, "I just- we're nurses, aren't we?" 

Suddenly, Trixie deflates. The group look at her in earnest.

"We can't fix her overnight." Sister Frances replies softly.

"I  _ know  _ that. I just wish we could make things easier on the other side. We can't  _ fix _ her leg, but surely we can make it  _ easier  _ for her?" 

Sister Frances shrugs. Sister Hilda stirs a sugar lump into her tea. 

"The heart is the trickiest thing to heal in medicine and I do believe it's the hardest to heal overall." Lucille cups her mug in her hands, looking at Trixie, or more so past her, at nothing in particular.

"There must be  _ something _ ." Sister Frances adds. 

"Perhaps she'll start healing once she's ready?" Trixie sighs, stubbing out her cigarette.

  
  
  


"Patsy! It's for you!" 

Patsy appears in the hallway at Delia's call, holding her arm around the smaller woman's waist as she takes the receiver.

"Speaking." 

Delia strains to hear, though it's muffled from her perspective.

"You have? How much is there?" 

The brunette tilts her head, laying it on Patsy's shoulder as she waits.

"That's wonderful news! Will I- yes, as soon as possible, please." 

She squeezes Delia into a tighter hug, practically bouncing with the energy in the room.

"Thank you! Brilliant, goodbye." 

Patsy places the receiver down, wrapping Delia in both of her arms.

"What? What is it, Pats?" Delia asks, pressed tight to her body.

"They've verified my connection to my father and- Delia, the money is officially mine." 

At once, Patsy pulls away, taking Delia's hands in her own. 

"I was rather looking forward to having to deal with the junior doctors at The London." Delia says mockingly.

"Don't lie to me, Busby." Patsy laughs. "Come on, we have to go up to Nonnatus House and break the news."

"Now, Pats?" 

"Yes, now." 

"I'll grab my coat." 

  
  


Trixie creeps into her room, closing the door softly to avoid noise. She waits for a moment.

"Bea?" The small voice comes from the other bed.

"It's me." 

She sits at the edge of her own bed, taking in the details of the woman laying opposite, placing a box of cigarettes on the nightstand. Shelby moves herself over, patting the bed beside her.

"I'm cold, I've just come back in from a trip up to  _ Buckle's. _ "

"I don't mind." 

Trixie nods, slipping her shoes off and sliding underneath the covers, beside the tall woman who appears positively tiny at present. 

"I'm not made of glass, darlin'. You don't have to-"

"I know." Trixie wraps an arm around her. "I just worry." 

"Don't do that. I take up enough  _ physical _ space as it is." Shelby reaches to brush a lock of hair from Trixie's face.

"I wish I could make it all better." 

"That really isn't your burden to bear."

"I'll bear it anyway. For you." She adjusts herself, holding Shelby closer.

"Always for you, Shelby." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if youre reading this lemme just take a moment to say THANKYOU SO MUCH for reading this au and making it what it is today!! i hope you all love shelby as much as i do, please be assured her story is FAR from over!! thank you if you have read any of this au, left kudos or even comments. ily and am so grateful for it all 💗💘💕


	22. consideration.

Patsy knocks gently, hearing the clock in the hall announce the arrival of ten. She slowly pushes the door open, Trixie and Shelby coming into view, curled together.

Patsy smiles before she turns and leaves.

"They're both out cold. We can let them know tomorrow." 

Delia nods, linking her arm in Patsy's as they head off back down the hall.

  
  
  


"Waste of bloody time _ that  _ was." 

Shelby huffs as she drops onto the couch cushions, Trixie sitting beside her, placing a hand on Shelby's good knee. Shelby rests her elbow against the arm of the couch, forehead rested against her palm.

"At least they've given you something else for the pain." 

"Still as much use as a chocolate bloody teapot. I won't be back to work any time soon." 

Shelby chews at the inside of her cheek.

"What's it like?" Trixie asks. It's shy, barely audible.

"Being a cripple?" Shelby laughs.

"Well- no. I meant- being a doctor. Is it different?" 

Shelby smiles faintly.

"It's great. Really, it is. Why do you ask?"

Trixie shrugs, looking down at the floor.

"Just thinking." 

"If you mean what I think you mean," she takes ahold of Trixie's hand, squeezing it in her own, "you'd be brilliant, Bea." 

There's a moment's silence.

"Do you mean that?" 

Trixie nods.

"I've been thinking about it for a while, now." She pauses, mind ticking. "And with the recent news, perhaps now is the time." 

"I'll support you, whatever you decide. I promise." 

She returns the squeeze to Trixie's hand.

"What do you suppose we've all been summoned for?" Sister Frances asks, looking around at the unusually full room.

Doctor Turner sits with Shelagh on one sofa, Trixie and Shelby on another, with Delia perched on the arm of the sofa. The armchair is taken by Sister Monica Joan, two dining chairs taking temporary residence in the parlor for Sisters Hilda and Frances. Phyllis opts to stand with Lucille, one ear cocked for the telephone apiece.

Sister Julienne enters with Patsy, the redhead's presence in Nonnatus becoming foreign. They stand before the group, Patsy shuffling a stack of papers between pale hands.

"Nurse Mount has something she would like to address with you all." announces the older nun, hands clasped in front of her. Patsy flinches a little at the use of her formative title. 

"Yes. Thank you, Sister." Patsy clears her throat. "As you all may be aware, I lost my father a year ago to Huntington's. I come from wealth and- there were some accounts that weren't taken into consideration at the time of his passing." 

She shuffles the papers in her hands.

"I have acquired a rather large sum, one which I have no need for. I have passed it all over into the hands of Sister Julienne and therefore to Nonnatus House." 

"Do you mean-?" Trixie asks, eyes sparkling.

"We have been spared from the wrath of time!" Sister Monica Joan cries out.

"Indeed. In fact, there is such a hefty amount that we may in fact have room in the budget for expansion." 

"Oh my goodness, this is amazing news." Shelby says, exchanging a glance with Trixie. 

"Expansion? Pats, you never told me that part." Delia says.

Patsy shuffles from one foot to the other.

"Well, no. Sister Julienne and I took rather a long time last night crunching numbers, right down to the last penny." 

"This is wonderful news." Phyllis says with a smile.

"Nurse Franklin, as our longest standing Nonnatus House midwife, I would rather enjoy having you take the reins with Nurse Mount on this." Sister Julienne says, warmly.

"Oh, Sister, I merely-" Patsy protests.

"Nonsense, Patsy. You deserve to be a part of this, just as the rest of us do. You and Trixie will be splendid." Lucille chimes in.

"Agreed." adds Sister Hilda. 

"I agree as well. You'll be great as a little team." Shelby smiles. 

"In that case, I would truly be honoured, Sister." she replies.

"I'll get it!" Lucille chirps as the phone rings. 

"I can guarantee that's Mrs Richards. Or rather, Mr Richards. I can't decide which is most hysterical." Phyllis says, jovially. 

"Nonnatus House, midwife speaking."

" _ Lu? Lu it's me _ ." 

"Valerie? You shouldn't be calling here."

_ "No, I know, I know." _

"Then why  _ have  _ you?" 

" _ Because I need to see you." _

"I told you-"

" _ I bloody know that, Lu. I've been a complete and utter prick- _ "

"Valerie."

" _ Sorry. Mind my mouth. Though you never norma- _ "

"Don't say it."

" _ Fine. The point still stands. _ "

"We had this conversation."

" _ No, we haven't. Please, just once. _ " 

"Where are you?"

" _ Liverpool." _

"What on earth-"

_ "I'll get the train to Poplar, just say the word and I'm yours." _

"Goodbye, Valerie." 

"Valerie? Why is  _ she  _ calling?"

Trixie appears behind Lucille, arms folded, brows raised. Lu's eyes fill with tears that hit the dull lamp light just right. 

"I don't know."

"Hug?" 

Lucille shakes her head, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. 

"Silly habit, I know. Valerie used to tell me how her gran threatened to knit her cardigans with no sleeves if she didn't stop." There's a smile, but it's pained, seems forced. 

"You miss her, don't you?"

Lucille nods slowly. 

"She wants to meet me, says she'll get the train here as soon as I say so." 

"Then why don't you?"

"I never expected to _ see _ her again, Trixie. I thought I could put this all away. Thought she would take it to Paris with her. But now she's back and she's in Liverpool ready to drop everything to come home. A home that isn't _ really _ home anymore." Lucille's voice wobbles, thick with tears. 

"What would you say to her? On the off chance she did leave- Liverpool? Why on earth is she in  _ Liverpool? _ "

"Heaven knows, Trixie. Besides I- I don't know. I just want to know why. Why she's doing what she's doing." Lucille bites her bottom lip, unsure of whether to let Trixie in on her little secret, the Christmas miracle that turned out to be the straw breaking the camel's back.

"Sleep on it. You may find you feel different once you've let things settle." 

Lucille nods.

"Thank you, Trixie." she forces herself to smile.

"I'll send somebody out with a cup of tea for you. Maybe a biscuit. I don't know how mischievous Sister Monica Joan's been lately." She smiles before she leaves again.

_ "Just say the word, and I'm yours."  _

  
  


"Does this change anything?" Shelby almost whispers as her and Trixie have a moment alone, as Sister Julienne sees the Turners out.

A nonchalant shrug.

"I hadn't made my mind up. But if they're expecting me to take this project on, with Patsy, it seems-" 

"You could do it, Bea. You're good at that." 

"It all depends whether I  _ want  _ to. Do I really need to?" 

Shelby shrugs.

"It's up to you. You know what I said." 

Trixie nods, smiling weakly.

"Franklin and Mount are officially  _ back _ ." says Patsy as she appears, handing a glass of bourbon to Shelby and a glass of lemonade to Trixie. 

"Your pa-"

"Haven't taken any yet. Cheers." Shelby insists, clinking glasses with Patsy.

"A real dynamic duo you two, aren't you?" Delia says lightly.

"Certainly."

"Penny for them?" Patsy asks, noticing the downcast look on her friend's face. Trixie shakes her head, plastering on her classic "no frills" smile at once.

"Oh, nothing. I'm just exhausted." she replies, excusing herself. 

"Do you believe her?" Shelby asks.

"Like hell I do." Patsy replies, sipping her drink. "Any idea?" 

Shelby shakes her head.

"Maybe she really is just tired? She's been picking up extra district shifts lately." Delia suggests.

Shelby nods, distracted.

_ "Women don't become doctors. Your role is behind the men. Where you belong."  _

_ "I didn't fork out for a degree to simply stand behind a man." _

_ "You aren't a real doctor. It isn't a woman's role." _

_ "No, you're right."  _

_ "Hm?" _

_ "I'm certainly more of a man than you could ever dream of being."  _

_ "You can't speak to me like that!" _

_ "No? How about you call for your superior? Oh look! She's already here." _

"She's out cold, poor lass." Phyllis pulls a blanket over Shelby as the sleeping woman shifts. 

"Her medication knocks her out pretty fast. I should have come down sooner and got her upstairs before she took them." 

Trixie appears at the bottom of the stairs, watching Phyllis move Shelby's sleeping frame on the sofa.

"She'll be alright." Phyllis soothes. "Will you, lass?" 

Trixie nods, though the older woman is unconvinced.

"It's almost eleven. You're normally well past your nine step skincare routine by now, tucked up with a cup of Earl Grey." 

"Not before bed. Chamomile all the way." Trixie forces a smile.

"You're avoiding the question." 

Trixie sighs heavily.

"It's just- it's all rather a lot, isn't it?" 

Phyllis invites Trixie to the kitchen table, filling the kettle and placing it on the lit stove.

"Doctor will recover in her own time. It needn't all be on your shoulders." 

Trixie shrugs, taking a seat.

"Not just that. Patsy's new found fortune, all this talk of expansion, it's all going to change, Phyllis." 

"Is change not a good thing?" Phyllis asks, pouring water into the teapot with care. 

Trixie's eyes widen.

"Certainly not."

"Never, ever?"

"Sometimes, perhaps. But- I don't know. It's a lot of change, all at once." 

Phyllis places the teapot onto the table, sliding a mug across the Trixie.

"Sometimes, a big shift in proceedings is how we figure out what really matters. Everything is different and suddenly you realise that what you need is right in front of you." Phyllis' eyes dart to the sleeping girl curled on the couch.

"I was considering retraining." Trixie says, helping herself to tea.

"Oh? Was?"

"Well, with all this planning I'll have to do with Patsy, there won't be much room for it, will there?" 

"There's always room for the important things. You're not going it alone, remember." 

Trixie nods with a smile.

"I know, of course not."

"Besides, you've got a vessel of knowledge right there. Who better to ask about going from a midwife to a fully fledged doctor?" Phyllis returns the smile.

"I think Shelby has a lot more to worry about lately than my career. Than me." 

"Nonsense, lass. She'll always have time for you. For anyone, if they needed it, I imagine."

Trixie swallows the lump in her throat.

"I'm afraid I may not have been giving her the same treatment." 

"Well you can always start again, in the morning, as I've always said." 

Trixie sips her tea as it cools.

  
  



End file.
